PRICE, FIFTY CENTS 
 
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OUR CHILDREN 
 
 BY 
 
 MILDRED FELIX 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
OUR CHILDREN 
 
 BY 
 
 MILDRED FELIX 
 
 NEW York 
 
 PHOENIX PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 1910 
 
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 \ 
 
 
 Copyright, 1910 
 
 BY 
 
 DR. CHAS. H. JAEGER 
 
 COPYRIGHT NOTICE AND WARNING. 
 This play is fully protected by the copyright law, ,all requirements of 
 which have been complied with. In its present printed form it is dedicated 
 to the reading public only, and no performances of it may be given with- 
 out the written permission of the author, who may be addressed in care of 
 the publisher. 
 
 The subjoined is an extract from the law relating to copyright: 
 Sec. 4996. Any person publicly performing or representing any dramatic 
 or musical composition for which a copyright has been obtained, without 
 the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition or 
 his heirs or assigns, shall be liable for damages therefor, such damages in 
 all cases to be assessed at such sum not less than one hundred dollars for 
 the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance as to the Court 
 shall appear just. If the unlawful performance and representation be 
 willful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a mis- 
 demeanor, and upon conviction be imprisoned for a period not exceeding 
 ■)ne year. 
 
 ;^osi5 
 
 TMP92-008877 
 

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 1^ 
 
 CAST 
 
 Jim Love joy. 
 
 Annie, his wife. 
 
 Mamie Lovejoy, their daughter, sixteen years old. 
 
 RosiE Love JOY, their daughter, twelve years old. 
 
 EvENASi Bates, superintendent in factory. 
 
 Sam^ janitor in factory. 
 
 Gregory^ son of proprietor of factory. 
 
 Jenny, factory worker. 
 
 Bertha. 
 
 Kate. 
 
 Mrs. Lovejoy, Jim's mother. 
 
I 
 
 And well may the children weep before you ; 
 
 They are weary ere they run ; 
 They have never seen the sunshine or the glory, 
 
 Which is brighter than the sun. 
 They know the griefs of men, but not the wisdom ; 
 
 — Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 A room divided by a curtain. One part crowded 
 with dirty beds and bedding. Clothes hanging about the 
 walls. Chairs with broken seats. A window (centre 
 back) showing a dismal zvall opposite and clothes flapping 
 about on the lines. (Door right back.) Occasional 
 sounds of people gossiping and scolding from below. 
 Over a bed a picture of "Suffer little children." The 
 other part a plain kitchen, with sink, table, a few chairs 
 and a broken sofa. Everything dilapidated, dingy, un- 
 healthful, cheerless. At window (centre back), which 
 sheds almost no light, an old, bent zvoinan is sitting, who 
 with nimble fingers makes flowers incessantly. They are 
 lying about in great profusion where she is working. 
 Annie is zvashing clothes. The air is thick with steam. 
 
 Mamie, a pretty girl of sixteen, is 'putting the 
 finishing touches to her toilet before a bit of broken mir- 
 ror. For a little zvhile she tries to adjust her collar, and 
 presently becomes impatient. 
 
 Mamie — Oh, dear, this is on the blink. 
 
 Annie (washing) — What makes you so fussy to-day? 
 You're not always so fussy. 
 
 Mamie — I've got to get this right, haven't I ? 
 
 Annie — What's the matter? It's all right. 
 
 Mamie — No, it isn't. It won't stay fixed. Won't you 
 
fix it for me? Try to put them hooks into their lawful 
 eyes. Please. ■ 
 
 (Annie wipes her hands on her apron and hastily 
 adjusts it.) 
 
 Annie — There, now, you're too vain. Do you ever 
 see me looking pretty ? 
 
 Mamie (continues zvith toilet) — Anything'll do for 
 me. You'd think you'd never been young yourself. 
 
 Annie — I'd like to know what you mean by that? Of 
 course I was young. Everybody's young once. But I'm 
 old enough now to know better. 
 
 Mamie — And you were never foolish and fussy ? 
 
 Annie — Indeed, Mamie, I was never more foolish at 
 any time of my life than I am to-day. 
 
 Mamie — And you never made yourself sweet and 
 pretty when father came and called on you ? 
 
 Annie (stirs clothes in boiler on stove) — No, I didn't, 
 'cause nothing could make me prettier. Anyway that 
 was different. He was my steady. He never liked any- 
 thing fussy, as they have nowadays. He liked me best 
 sleek, my hair made just plain, so I never fussed. I'd 
 just brush my hair for an hour until it was as smooth and 
 shiny as a mirror, and all I'd have on was a little oil. 
 
 Mamie — I wonder if father lived I'd have to wear my 
 hair sleek and greased? 
 
 Annie (returns to tub) — You mean oiled. You'd 
 have to do just as he'd say. He liked to have his way. 
 and he got it. But don't remind me of your father. 
 (Wipes her eyes.) I hate to think of disagreeable things. 
 
 Mamie — But you had lots of good times. More than 
 I have. 
 
 Annie — I guess I did. Indeed I did have good times, 
 very good times. I belonged to a spelling bee. A spell- 
 ing bee is where you spell. And when you spell a word 
 
wrong you have to give a kiss. When we girls were 
 alone there was never any kissing going on. But the 
 boys ain't so good in spelling as they're cracked up to 
 be. You ought to belong to a spelling bee. You learn so 
 much. 
 
 Mamie — Oh, that's no fun. 
 
 Annie (feels zvhether clothes on pulley line at win- 
 dow are dry — takes some off) — If there were more spell- 
 ing bees there wouldn't be so many divorce bees. 
 
 Mamie — No one would like that one bit. 
 
 Annie (impatiently) — Be sensible. When you're poor 
 you must be sensible. 
 
 Mamie (examines clothes, petticoats, all in had con- 
 dition) — How much money must you have before you 
 can stop being sensible ? 
 
 Annie — Such a question! You'll always be too poor 
 for that. Remember how you're situated and make the 
 best of it. 
 
 Mamie — That's just the trouble — how to make the 
 best of it without giving in. What difference does it 
 make to my feelings to know that I'm poor. I long for 
 something. (Clutching her waist.) Something seems to 
 be busting here. 
 
 Annie — You must let out a seam. 
 
 Mamie — I want to do something dreadful and run 
 away. 
 
 Annie — Oh! Well, I'm glad you two are girls. Be- 
 cause girls ain't boys. A boy might do it, but a girl don't, 
 because where would the world be if she did. Keep your 
 mind on your work. That's the best remedy for dis- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Mamie (sets breakfast table) — But it ain't dissatis- 
 faction. It's something else. 
 
 Annie — It's amusements you want. You've set your 
 
heart on them. That's the whole thing. Amusements 
 don't amount to anything. 
 
 Mamie — You don't know. 
 
 Annie — I do know, because I've had them. Have 
 some sense. 
 
 Mamie — I'm young. 
 
 Annie — Young! That's no excuse. I haven't a bit 
 more sense to-day than I had when I was young. No, 
 you musn't think so much of yourself. You go to the 
 moving pictures. Did I go to the moving pictures when 
 I was young? 
 
 Mamie — What's that? 
 
 Annie — That's certainly something wonderful. You 
 couldn't have invented that. And you go to the meetings. 
 
 Mamie (cleans cup by spitting on it and rubbing 
 with her sleeve) — I'll grant the moving pictures. But 
 the meetings, that's business. What do you call it when 
 we discuss tariff revision, insurgent coalition, adenoids, 
 employers' liabilities, unionism, old age pension, capital- 
 ism, socialism, anarchism? 
 
 Annie — And what good does it do you to know all 
 about liable collisions, tariff pensions and all the isms. 
 
 Mamie — It's part of our work. 
 
 Annie — They have no right to expect so much work 
 of a girl ; especially after hours. 
 
 Mamie — We just reform all that. That's all we do. 
 
 Annie — Oh, is that all? 
 
 Mamie — And we discuss what's going on in Congress. 
 
 Annie (stirs zvash in boiler — slops it over herself) — 
 And pray what's that? 
 
 Mamie — Congress? That's like the House of Com- 
 mons. 
 
 Annie — I must say I don't like your talk about com- 
 mon houses. I like a little gossip myself, but I draw the 
 
line somewhere. You ought to know better, and I don't 
 want you to go there any more. 
 
 Mamie — You can't be expected to know these things. 
 You've looked into your washtub all your life, and that's 
 all you know anything about. 
 
 Annie (goes back to washing) — It's a most useful 
 thing to know about. But I don't want you to take Rosie 
 any more. 
 
 Mamie — Rosie is crazier about them than me. 
 
 Annie — What's the use knowing all the gossip and 
 scandals. 
 
 Mamie (polishes her shoes vigorously, spitting on 
 them) — But they make you so hopeful. 
 
 Annie — If that's all you want, go to church. They 
 only bamboozle you. 
 
 Mamie — The meetings or the church? 
 
 Annie — If you talk like that, you'll never go to 
 heaven. You know very well what I mean. They don't 
 bring in any money either. 
 
 Mamie — The best things don't bring in any money. 
 
 Annie — I won't let Rosie go any more. I don't want 
 her spoiled. She must keep her childhood and illusions. 
 (Holds up a piece of disreputable underwear to see if it 
 is clean.) What would I have done if I didn't have my 
 illusions. I wouldn't be standin' here now. Goodness 
 only knows what would have become of me. You must 
 have a little romance in life. 
 
 Mamie — It can't hurt her to know the truth. 
 
 Annie — Indeed it does. She ain't no more a child 
 than I am. 
 
 Mamie — You imagine that. 
 
 Annie — What right have they to bother a child with 
 other people's troubles. It's bad enough if grown-ups 
 are pestered with them. 
 
Mamie — Are the meetings to blame? The troubles 
 exist whether we go to them or not. 
 
 Annie — They should be left to those that have ex- 
 perience. When you think too much you lose your faith. 
 How could any one stand the troubles of the world with- 
 out faith? 
 
 Mamie — It's not right to close our eyes and ears 
 against the world just to keep our faith and illusions. 
 But you needn't worry about Rosie. She takes it all in 
 fun. 
 
 Annie — You believe Rosie takes it all in fun? Well, 
 I guess not. The other day she says, *Tt's right to make 
 children work. They should work. They should suffer. 
 The more they suffer the better." And why do you 
 suppose ? 
 
 Mamie — Why ? 
 
 Annie — Because Scripture says, ''Suffer the little 
 children to come unto me, for there's the Kingdom of 
 heaven." 
 
 Mamie — I hope you didn't spoil her illusion. It must 
 have given her comfort. Anyway she's only a kid. 
 
 Annie — That's just it. She is only a kid and under- 
 stands only half of all she hears. She doesn't understand 
 any more of those things than you or me or any dunce. 
 What can you expect of a child ? 
 
 Mamie — What harm does it do? 
 
 Annie — A child of twelve ought to be thinking of 
 ribbons and bows — 
 
 Mamie — When she gets the beau she'll look for the 
 ribbon. 
 
 Annie — You know very well I don't mean that kind 
 of a beau. 
 
 Mamie — We all get things twisted a little, don't we ? 
 
 Annie — Suppose they don't untwist again? 
 
Mamie — Wait till we have better times. She'll 
 change. (Dumbwaiter buzz — Annie and Mamie both run 
 for door.) 
 
 Annie — We needn't both go — it's the milk. 
 
 (Opposite door a wall and door for dumbwaiter.) 
 
 Mamie — All right — 
 
 Voice — I-ice ! 
 
 Mamie — Ice? — Mother, did you order ice? — 
 
 Annie — Of course not — we have nothing in the ice- 
 box anyway or any other place, either. 
 
 Mamie — We didn't order any ice — here it is. (Carries 
 in a miniature piece.) Does he think we want to start a 
 skating rink up here? 
 
 Annie — Put it back — hurry up — 
 
 Mamie — There'll be none left by the time it gets 
 downstairs. (Calls) We didn't order no ice — but if you 
 have any trouble getting rid of it you can bring it back 
 next summer. 
 
 (Mamie closes dumbwaiter, returns into the room.) 
 
 Mamie — Is breakfast ready? 
 
 Annie — You're so early I haven't started yet. 
 
 Mamie (puts curling iron in stove — waits for it to get 
 hot) — I'm in an awful hurry. 
 
 Annie — Is that so? What is it? 
 
 Mamie — Oh, nothing. Do you know where my rat is? 
 
 Annie — Of course not — how should I know? What's 
 your hurry? 
 
 Mamie — I want to go somewhere before work. 
 
 Annie — You might carry the clothes to Mrs. Smith 
 at the same time. 
 
 Mamie — I just love to carry cl^^hes in the day time. 
 Anyway, I ain't going that way. 
 
 Annie (hangs out clothes) — Where are you going? 
 
 Mamie (impatiently) — Oh, dear, I'm going crazy! 
 
Annie — The idea ! Tell me where you are going. 
 
 Mamie — I'm going to Murray street. 
 
 Annie — And what are you doing there? 
 
 Mamie (feels heat of curling iron at her cheek) — 
 I'm just going to see Kate. 
 
 Annie — You're p'ison mad to be going there in the 
 morning when you'll be seeing her all day in the factory. 
 
 Mamie (begins to curl her hair at mirror) — I just 
 want to see her. 
 
 Annie — What's there to see at her ? — 
 
 Mamie — Nothing in particular. 
 
 Annie — What are you making such a mystery about 
 it then? If you'd tell me then I'd know. 
 
 Mamie — I'm not making a mystery about it. Only 
 you're bound to know. 
 
 Annie — That's just what I thought. You're keeping 
 it from me because you don't want me to know. But I 
 should like to know what you are about that won't bear 
 telling — and so early in the morning too! 
 
 Voice in air-shaft — Hanging out clothes ? We'll have 
 rain in a minute. 
 
 Annie — You can't see anything what's doing here. 
 
 Voice — No, but out front I can see, and it's all clouded 
 up. 
 
 Mamie — Is it rainin'? 
 
 (Pot on stove begins to burn.) 
 
 Voice — Not yet, but it will soon — something's burnin' 
 in your kitchen. 
 
 Annie — Mamie, something's burning. 
 
 Mamie — It's only my hair. 
 
 Annie — It's only her hair. 
 
 Voice — Why, I can see it from here — 
 
 (Annie turns to the kitchen; discovers pot.) 
 
Annie — Mamie — see the beans — oh dear, oh dear — 
 why didn't you look out ? 
 
 (Annie tastes them, Mamie looks into the pot regret- 
 fully, tastes some.) 
 
 Mamie — They're not very bad. 
 
 Annie — Oh no, just so I don't say anything. 
 
 (Annie closes window) — It was the beans, Mrs. 
 Clark, thanks ever so much — I thought it was only her 
 hair. 
 
 (Annie puts some beans into two small pails) — You 
 wouldn't have had any lunch if Mrs. Clark hadn't noticed. 
 What are you up to, I'd like to know. 
 
 Mamie — But I don't see why you want to know every- 
 thing. The other girls don't tell everything either. 
 
 Annie — I don't expect the other girls to tell me every- 
 thing. 
 
 Mamie — I'm old enough. You might trust me. 
 
 Annie — I've taken care of you all my life, and it's my 
 intention to take care of you as long as I live. The least 
 you can do is not to keep any secrets from me. 
 
 Mamie — I'm really not doing anything wrong. 
 
 Annie — Not doing anything wrong? And keeping a 
 secret from me? That's the meanest thing any one can 
 do. 
 
 Mamie — It's really nothing worth knowing. 
 
 Annie — How can you judge? Every secret is worth 
 knowing. 
 
 Mamie — You've been preaching all my life. It would 
 be a pity if I didn't know. 
 
 Annie — I wish you was married. Then I'd have you 
 off my mind and you'd have a husband. 
 
 Mamie (hunts for something under furniture) — I'll 
 get married soon enough. I wish I could find my rat. 
 I've been looking for it for weeks. 
 
Annie — The responsibility is too great. You could 
 get married this very minute if you wanted to. 
 
 Mamie — I won't listen about Sammy. I won't have 
 him. 
 
 Annie — You'd be taken care of. You'd have a home. 
 Sammy isn't a bad sort of a fellow. You couldn't get 
 yourself into mischief and I wouldn't have to worry any 
 more. 
 
 Mamie — What would I want to marry Sammy for? 
 A nice one you've picked out for me. 
 
 Annie — You'd have bread all your life and it would 
 be pie. 
 
 Mamie — All my life! He might die same as father 
 
 did and leave me with a brood of children You 
 
 know, Mother, it's funny I can't seem to remember at 
 all when father died. 
 
 Annie (zvashes at tub) — Didn't I tell you not to talk 
 about your father? You were too young to remember. 
 
 Mamie — I remember lots of things. I remember my 
 canary. I remember so many people came when Rosie 
 was born, and didn't they ask questions? And you cried. 
 I'm sure I'd have remembered. 
 
 Annie — You do remember. What makes you ask? 
 
 Mamie — Were those father's friends? Oh, dear, I 
 wonder where it is. 
 
 Annie — To be sure. What else could they be? 
 
 Mamie — But no one knows him now? 
 
 Annie — Never mind your father now. I want you to 
 think seriously of Sammy. 
 
 Mamie (finds corset cover, which appears to please 
 her) — Why doesn't any one know him here? 
 
 Annie — We're not living in the same town. 
 
 Mamie — Why did you leave when you had so many 
 friends ? 
 
 10 
 
Annie — That was just it. 
 
 Mamie (begins drawing ribbon through corset cover) 
 — Father must have been well liked to have so many 
 friends. 
 
 Annie — What are you doing there? Drawing ribbon 
 through that thing. Haven't you any better use for your 
 money ? It's all torn, too ; you ought to mend it first. 
 
 Mamie — I'd like to know when I'm to mend it. When 
 I come home I'm dead tired. 
 
 Annie — I do wish you'd take Sammy. He's a good 
 match. 
 
 Mamie — A janitor's wife! 
 
 Annie — He loves you. He'll give you a decent name. 
 
 Mamie — Well, that isn't much. 
 
 Annie — It's something you wish for when you haven't 
 got it. Anyway, it's always decenter for a girl to have 
 a husband's name. He'd stick to you, no matter what'd 
 turn up. 
 
 Mamie — What's to turn up? 
 
 Annie — You can't tell. Things are popping up all the 
 time. Take my advice, accept him. 
 
 Mamie — I bet Sammy's been here again and coaxed 
 you to talk to me. 
 
 Annie — I wish you would. Then you'd be settled. 
 
 Mamie — Tell me. He's been here yesterday? 
 
 Annie — Don't bother me. 
 
 Mamie — Tell me. He's popping in here to pop 
 again ? 
 
 Annie — Well, yes, he has. 
 
 Mamie — I can always tell when he's been here. Then 
 you're always so anxious to get rid of me. 
 
 Annie — I don't want to get rid of you; you know 
 that. I want to get rid of Sammy. 
 
Mamie — Somehow I don't feel for Sammy. There's 
 nothing to him. 
 
 Annie (stirs clothes) — And his love? Is that nothing? 
 
 Mamie — I've made up my mind on that score long 
 ago. Now don't trouble me about that any more. (Pre- 
 pares to go out.) 
 
 Annie — Don't imagine I'll let you go before I know 
 just where you are going. 
 
 Mamie (places chair at table) — It's no wrong. I'm 
 old enough. I earn my own money. 
 
 Annie — Haven't I struggled all my life? Worked and 
 worried to keep your body and soul together? — and now 
 you want to go out ! 
 
 Mamie (affectionately) — Don't get upset. It's really 
 nothing dreadful. 
 
 Annie — You can't do that way. You make me so un- 
 happy. You have no idea what dreadful things happen. 
 It seems as though that's all there is. Ships sink — rail- 
 road accidents — 
 
 Mamie — If you insist. 
 
 Annie — Of course I do. I wouldn't if I knew. 
 
 Mamie — I wanted to spare you. You always fly off 
 the handle. 
 
 Annie (quickly, anxiously) — Mamie, what is it? 
 
 Mamie (pouting) — Nothing to excite yourself about. 
 Only it'll spoil all my fun. 
 
 Annie — You think I'm spoiling your fun, when I'm 
 only advising you. 
 
 Mamie — I'm the only one who hasn't any fun. All 
 the other girls have all sorts of good times. 
 
 Annie — What does it amount to. It isn't worth the 
 sacrifice. 
 
 Mamie — They don't sacrifice anything. 
 
 Annie — You think so because you don't understand. 
 
 12 
 
Everything has to be paid for, and when you have no 
 money you pay with something else. 
 
 Mamie — Some pay with checks. It gets me tired. 
 
 Annie (encouragingly) — I want your best. You know 
 I do. And I must take care of you. It's so easy to get 
 into trouble and so hard to get out of it. 
 
 (Mamie goes into adjoining room, takes package 
 from under mattress. Rosie wakes up and sits in bed. 
 Puts her arm around Mamie's neck.) 
 
 Rosie — Don't cry, Mamie. Don't cry. 
 
 (Mamie puts package slozvly, reluctantly, into Annie's 
 hand. Turns hack and sobs. Annie sits on chair, undoes 
 package, and piece of light blue cloth falls out. Annie, 
 speechless, looks first at cloth, then at Mamie. Touches 
 it, examines it.) 
 
 Annie (severely) — What does this mean? 
 
 (Mamie continues to cry, but gives no answer.) 
 
 Annie — Where did you get this? 
 
 Rosie — Don't scold. Please don't scold Mamie, 
 Mother, dear. 
 
 Annie (sharply) — It's good you're awake. It's time 
 for you to get up. Where did you get this ? 
 
 Mamie — At Richards. 
 
 Annie — I don't mean the store ; I mean the money. 
 
 Mamie — I got it working overtime. It's all my own. 
 
 Annie (aloud to herself) — Light blue. The idea. 
 (To Mamie) Whatever made you buy such a color and 
 the rent staring us in the face. 
 
 Rosie — Please don't scold. 
 
 Annie (impatiently) — Get dressed. Do I wear light 
 blue? Didn't you think of the rent? — To waste your 
 money like that — and the coals. Whatever put it into 
 your head to buy this for. And without saying a word 
 to anybody. 
 
 13 
 
Mamie — If I'd told you, you wouldn't have let me. 
 
 Annie — Of course not. There's no sense in it. What 
 did you do that for ? (Dispairingly.) It's only fit to wear 
 at a spelling bee. 
 
 Rosie — Tell Mother, even if she does get mad. 
 
 Annie — So there's something going on behind my 
 back. 
 
 Mamie — It's for an entertainment. 
 
 Annie — Whoever heard of making such preparations 
 for an entertainment. 
 
 Mamie (sweetly) — Now, Mother, you're unfair. All 
 the girls said I'd look so nice in light blue — and I wanted 
 to look pretty once and have a good time — so I bought it. 
 
 Annie (indignantly) — So you bought it. You bought 
 light blue to make a light blue dress, I suppose. 
 
 Mamie — I earned it working overtime. 
 
 Annie — What entertainment ? 
 
 Mamie — Don't ask. 
 
 Annie — More secrets. Why do you keep secrets from 
 me? 
 
 (Mamie shrugs her shoulders.) 
 
 Annie — Don't make a fuss about it. Tell me this 
 minute. 
 
 Mamie — I know you won't let me go then. 
 
 Annie — If I don't know how can I tell. I'd no 
 objection letting you go to a decent place; I certainly 
 won't let you go to a place where you have no business 
 to go. 
 
 Mamie — It's a decent place. 
 
 Annie — Well, let me hear. 
 
 Mamie — You don't understand. I'm young. I need 
 pleasure. I need it. I can't be like an old machine that 
 works all the time. That works and works and sleeps. 
 When it comes to pleasure you'd think it was a crime. 
 
 14 
 
Annie — It's not the fun I begrudge you. Tm only 
 afraid you'll have to pay too high. 
 
 Mamie — I've counted it all out. I'll manage to pay 
 for this ; I'll go without something else. 
 
 (Buzz.) 
 
 Annie — You see. You're already counting upon sac- 
 rificing something. 
 
 Mamie (exit to dumbwaiter) — Yes, I know. But I 
 feel I ought to go, no matter what sacrifice I bring. They 
 all say so. 
 
 Annie — Who is all? 
 
 Mamie (brings in pint bottle of milk, puts it in ice- 
 box, and finds rat) — The girls. 
 
 Annie — Don't rely on their judgment. 
 
 Mamie — They're right this time. I've found my rat — 
 good place to keep warm and undisturbed. 
 
 (Rosie laughs a weak little laugh.) 
 
 Annie — You did that, you naughty girl. 
 
 (Rosie laughs again.) 
 
 Annie — They're right because it suits you. You get 
 me tired. You must tell me anyway. I'll not give this 
 out of my hands until you do. 
 
 Mamie (reluctantly) — Well, it's a ball next week, and 
 I've been invited. 
 
 Annie — By Sammy? 
 
 Mamie — No, not by Sammy. It's a swell afifair — 
 and I'm — 
 
 Annie — Where ? 
 
 Mamie (hesitatingly) — To the Knickerbocker Ball. 
 
 Annie (astonished) — To the Knickerbocker Ball! 
 
 Mamie (with more assurance) — Yes, to the Knicker- 
 bocker Ball. 
 
 Annie — Where in the world did you get an invitation? 
 
 Mamie (proudly) — I knew it was a swell place. 
 
 15 
 
Annie — With whom are you going? 
 
 Mamie — Mr. Bates invited me. 
 
 Annie (in amazement) — Mr. Bates! Isn't that the 
 superintendent ? 
 
 Mamie — Of course — Mr. Bates. 
 
 Annie (reflectively) — I wish you wouldn't go. 
 
 Mamie (astonishment) — Not go ! 
 
 Annie — There is such a difference in your station in 
 life. 
 
 Mamie — If I didn't go the girls would think I am 
 crazy. He's a real gentleman and I'd love to go. 
 
 Annie — To be sure you'd love to go. Anybody'd love 
 to go. 
 
 Mamie — They'd all jump at a chance like that. 
 
 Annie — Perhaps they would. Mamie, I wish you'd 
 refuse. 
 
 Mamie — He's so grand. 
 
 (Annie shakes her head in deep thought) — If it were 
 Sammy. 
 
 Mamie — I was so surprised when he asked me. I 
 don't remember what I said. I got red all over. He's 
 so nice. You can't imagine. And the girls — they didn't 
 know what to make of it. Bertha just put her arm around 
 me and said "No wonder you are so good — and so 
 pretty." 
 
 Annie (dreamily) — Perhaps you're right. I've missed 
 many a chance because I was too timid, and things I 
 thought were right turned out wrong. You may be right. 
 
 Mamie (hugs her) — If you could only see him. 
 
 Annie — Couldn't you bring him here? 
 
 Mamie (with significant glance) — Here? 
 
 Annie — That's true. You're sure he invited you. 
 You're sure he wasn't kiddin' you ? 
 
 Mamie — Why, no. What do you think. I tell you 
 
 16 
 
he's a real gentleman. Shall I tell you how I'll have my 
 dress made? That's what I wanted to go to Katie for; 
 her sister'll make it for me. (Joyously) Here in front 
 all insertions and tucks. Lace around here and at the 
 sleeves. A plaited skirt that comes out here like this, 
 very full at the bottom, and three tiny plaits at the hips. 
 Won't it be just too lovely. And isn't the color becom- 
 ing? (Holds goods to her face, drapes it around her, 
 puts flowers in her hair and drapery.) I think it is too 
 beautiful for anything. And, Mother, my first ball. One 
 is young only once. I'll be so proud when I walk through 
 the hall with lights and flowers — and carry my head 
 high (imitates), as though that was what I was used to all 
 my life. And the music (hums and dances, throzvs cup 
 off table). 
 
 Annie — Can't you be more careful? 
 
 (Mamie picks up pieces and puts them together — 
 still bubbling over with pleasure.) 
 
 Mamie — Strange you always see the crack. Never 
 mind, Mother. I know a place where you can get a cup 
 and saucer for nothing with a pound of coffee. I'll get 
 you one next time. 
 
 Annie — If you're so awkward you'll not be a great 
 success at the ball. 
 
 Mamie — There'll not be any cups in the way to spoil 
 my dance. (Dances zvith more care, but not with the 
 same joy.) I'm so glad I'm going, so glad. And my first 
 ball. Isn't it good of him to think of me ! 
 
 (Annie gives no answer.) 
 
 Mamie — Isn't he good to ask me? 
 
 Annie — How can you judge if you don't know the 
 reason. 
 
 Mamie — He's really awfully kind. 
 
 Annie — How does he show it? 
 
 17 
 
Mamie — In a great many ways. The other girls 
 noticed it more than I did. When he passes he stops and 
 sometimes watches me work, or asks how I'm getting 
 along. Whether there's a draught. Just little things like 
 that. But they count for so much. 
 
 Annie — First thing you know you'll be falling in love. 
 
 Mamie (innocently) — Who knows. 
 
 Annie — Don't Hsten to your heart before you know 
 he means well. 
 
 Mamie (folds up goods musingly) — I made sure be- 
 fore I bought it that I could pay for it. 
 
 Annie (pulls back curtain) — Rosie, are you up? Not 
 up yet? It seems to me, Alamie — How long have you 
 been working there? 
 
 Mamie — Nearly two years. 
 
 Annie — Isn't there a chance of your getting a raise? 
 
 Mamie — Well I should think so. Nearly two years 
 md no raise. Bertha and Jenny got one two weeks ago. 
 
 Annie — And why didn't you get any? 
 
 Mamie — I don't know. 
 
 Annie — But you ought to. If the others get a raise 
 it's only fair that you should, too. You'll have to ask him. 
 
 Mamie — It's awfully unpleasant. 
 
 Annie — You can't think of that. One has to do lots 
 of unpleasant things. You're foolish. 
 
 Mamie — I don't think it'll do any good. 
 
 Annie — It can't do any harm to ask him. 
 
 Mamie — I just hate it. 
 
 Annie — It can't be helped now. You ask him at the 
 first opportunity. I do believe that child is still in bed. 
 Just think what a help it would be. It's no more than 
 right you should get higher wages. Get up this minute ; 
 you'll surely be late. You need more money now. You're 
 sixteen years old ; you can't be wasting your whole life on 
 
 18 
 
such small pay. When you tell him you need it he'll 
 surely give you more. 
 
 (Annie goes to the bed and shakes up Rosie, who rubs 
 her eyes and stretches.) 
 
 Rosie — I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. 
 
 Annie — Then I'll put cold water on them. — One needs 
 more money as one gets older. 
 
 Rosie — The night never seems long enough. 
 
 Annie — You say that every morning. Why, it's nearly 
 five already. 
 
 Rosie — Because I'm tired every morning. All night 
 long I dream I'm working. I wish I could sleep once 
 good and long until I'm good and rested. 
 
 Annie — To-morrow, Rosie. To-morrow is Washing- 
 ton's Birthday. Then you can sleep as long as you please. 
 
 Rosie — Yes ; then I'll sleep and sleep and sleep — 
 
 Mamie — It's so late now, I'll have to go to Katie's to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Annie — You'd better, and you'll have more time, too. 
 
 Mamie — One never knows if she's in on a holiday. 
 
 Annie — Mamie, be very careful. Men of that class 
 are so different from the men you know. They don't 
 think much of poor girls. 
 
 Mamie — What's there to be careful about? 
 
 Annie — I wish you didn't have to go to the factory — 
 if I could only see him once. 
 
 Rosie (cheerfully) — I'll take care of Mamie. I'll 
 look out for her. 
 
 Mamie — You're not going to do anything of the kind. 
 
 Annie — How long have you noticed his attentions? 
 
 Mamie — Not very long. 
 Annie — I don't like it. 
 
 Mamie — You always worry. There's nothing to 
 worry about. 
 
 19 
 
Rosie — ril keep an eye on Mamie. 
 
 Mamie — No you're not, either. You're not going to 
 butt into my affairs. 
 
 Rosie — I didn't intend to butt in. I only thought I 
 might — 
 
 Mamie — I don't want you to butt with your eyes or 
 ears either. First thing you know you'll be spoiling 
 everything. 
 
 Rosie — I won't. I surely won't. 
 
 (Rosie already half dressed finishes her toilet quietly.) 
 
 Mamie — I wish, Mother, you'd tell Rosie she 
 shouldn't interfere. 
 
 Annie (pours coffee) — She'll not do anything. 
 
 Mamie — She shouldn't mix in at all. 
 
 Annie — I don't think you could do anything for 
 Mamie. I think she is old enough to look out for her- 
 self. Mamie'U remember what I've told her all these 
 years. Only don't fall in love. 
 
 Mamie — I'm sure one can't help that. 
 
 Annie — It's a serious matter to fall in love and be 
 disappointed. 
 
 Mamie — Oh, I'm not afraid. 
 
 (Some one is heard groping outside. Mamie opens 
 the door. A man stands quietly in the doorway, surveys 
 the room. Comes in quietly. Mamie closes door me- 
 chanically after him.) 
 
 Annie — You, Jim! 
 
 (Jim nods assent — sinks into chair dejectedly, dead 
 tired. Puts his hat on the floor beside him.) 
 
 Annie — Jim, you here? 
 
 (Jim only looks at her.) 
 
 Annie — You've come back. 
 
 (Old woman at window looks about, notices some- 
 
 20 
 
thing unusual has happened. Hobbles up in front of man 
 and gases at him, Jim looks up at her, rises.) 
 
 Jim (softly) — Mother. (Embraces her quietly. Then 
 he sits down. She nods and smiles at him for a little 
 zvhile. Wipes her eyes with her apron. Hobbles back to 
 her seat and continues to work as though nothing had 
 happened.) 
 
 Annie — So you've found us. 
 
 (Jim looks at Mamie, as though he wanted to say 
 something, but checks himself.) 
 
 Annie — What do you intend to do now? 
 
 Jim (tonelessly) — I don't know. 
 
 Annie — Come, Mamie. Have your breakfast. 
 
 Jim (listlessly) — Is that Mamie? 
 
 Annie — Yes. 
 
 Jim — She's tall. 
 
 Annie — Yes, she's grown. 
 
 Jim — It's a long time. You never believed me. 
 
 Annie (alarmed) — Don't talk about that now. Wait 
 till the children are gone. They'll soon go. 
 
 Jim — Where ? 
 
 Annie — To work. They work in the factory. 
 
 Jim — Not a good place for a girl. 
 
 Annie — We had to live. 
 
 Jim — I know. 
 
 (Mamie takes her breakfast, casting a glance nozv and 
 then at her father and mother. Silence. Rosie comes in 
 noiselessly, rivets her eyes on Jim. After a while he feels 
 some one gazing at him. He looks up directly into Rosie' s 
 eyes. They look at each other intently for a few seconds. 
 Annie takes notice.) 
 
 Annie — It's your father, Rosie. 
 
 (Both still gazing at each other intently.) 
 
 Rosie — I didn't know I had a father — living. (Pause.) 
 
 21 
 
I'm glad (simply). (Goes to him, gives her hand. Jim 
 holds it a little zvhile.) 
 
 Jim — Why ? 
 
 Rosie — Because I need a father. 
 
 Jim (sorrowfully) — You do? But I won't stay. 
 
 Rosie — No ? 
 
 Jim — No. 
 
 Rosie — Why did you come then ? 
 
 Jim — I wanted to see you. 
 
 Rosie — I'm sorry you won't stay. 
 
 Jim — I wanted to see how you were getting along. 
 
 Rosie (zvith expectant smile) — I thought you had 
 come to stay. 
 
 Jim — Would you like me to stay ? 
 
 Rosie — Gee, you could help so much. 
 
 Jim — I'll try to help anyway. 
 
 Rosie — You couldn't if you don't stay. 
 
 Jim — One can earn money elsewhere too. 
 
 Rosie — I didn't mean that way. 
 
 Jim — Not that way? 
 
 Rosie (proudly) — We've earned our own living — for 
 years. 
 
 Jim — Not that way ? What way ? 
 
 Rosie — In a way that only a strong man can help. 
 
 Jim — A strong man? 
 
 Rosie — Yes — a noble man — a good man. 
 
 Jim (brightening) — Do you think I am a strong, good, 
 noble man ? 
 
 Rosie — Yes. All men are strong, good, noble — some- 
 times. 
 
 Jim — Not always. 
 
 Rosie (thoughtfully) — Not always good and noble — 
 but always strong. 
 
 Jim — Will you be satisfied if I am just strong? 
 
 33 
 
Rosie — Yes. 
 
 Jim — And you can be good and noble. Is that it ? 
 
 Rosie (laughs and claps her hands) — Then you'll 
 help me in my work ? 
 
 J tin — Is your work hard in the factory? 
 
 Rosie — Oh, yes. Because I'm so little. But that's 
 not the work I mean. I mean my life's work. 
 
 Annie — Don't bother your father, Rosie. She has 
 such queer notions. 
 
 Jim (tenderly) — You must tell me some other time, 
 dear. 
 
 Annie — You'll have to hurry now. It's very late. 
 
 Rosie — You won't go before I've told you? 
 
 Jim — No. 
 
 (Rosie sits down to her breakfast excited and happy. 
 Talks very rapidly.) 
 
 Rosie — I'd be glad to be a big man like you. It must 
 be very nice. You can do anything you like, can't you ? 
 
 Jim — Not always. 
 
 Rosie — Everybody does everything they like except 
 little children. They must do what they're told. But 
 now you're going to help me. You won't go away? 
 
 (They get up from the table and put on shabby wraps. 
 Rosie's is so small she puts hers on with difficulty.) 
 
 Rosie — I know you won't go away. I'm so glad 
 you've come. Now no one'll dare harm you, Mamie. 
 
 Jim — Is any one trying to harm Mamie? 
 
 Mamie — Rosie, you're awful. 
 
 Rosie (laughs joyfully) — No one would dare now. 
 You look tired. I guess you had to get up too early. 
 (Confidentially.) I'm always tired, too, when I get up. 
 I'm tired every day. But I'm not a bit tired now because 
 I'm so happy. You must get rested. You must sleep 
 right there in my bed until you are not the least bit tired 
 
 23 
 
any more. And when you are good and rested we'll start 
 right in to work. 
 
 Jim (tenderly) — What is it? What am I supposed to 
 do? 
 
 (Rosie whispers something in his ear. He lifts her 
 high in his arms. She puts her arms around his neck and 
 kisses him.) 
 
 Jim (as he puts her down, solemnly) — So that is your 
 life's work. God bless you. 
 
 Rosie — I'm so glad you've come. 
 
 (Jim gazes at the door through zvhich they have 
 vanished.) 
 
 Jim — A strange child. What will become of her? 
 How will Hfe deal with her? Life will crush her en- 
 thusiasm. But I will not disappoint her. I'll do what 
 she wants. Her trust in me shall not be shaken. Poor 
 little thing. So full of spirit, so frail of body. Where 
 does she learn these things ? 
 
 Annie — They go to meetings and hear all sorts of 
 things. But I said this morning I won't have her go any 
 more. She is too young to understand. 
 
 Jim — She does understand. (Radiantly.) She be- 
 lieved in me. Some day I shall tell her. 
 
 Annie — You will never tell her. 
 
 Jim — I may. She would surely comprehend. At any 
 rate she would sympathize. You never spoke to them 
 about me? 
 
 Annie — It was impossible. I could not bear it. I 
 told them what was good about you, but never more. 
 
 Jim — What was good about me! And was there not 
 enough good in me to make you believe in me? 
 
 Annie — But just at that time — when I was expect- 
 ing— 
 
 Jim — Wouldn't that prove to you ? — 
 
 24 
 
Annie — You always had a quick temper — 
 
 Jim — But never beyond control — 
 
 Annie — You didn't know what you did, that's all. 
 
 Jim — Annie, is that still your idea? 
 
 Annie — Everybody knew it. There couldn't have 
 been a mistake. 
 
 Jim — That doesn't prove anything. 
 
 Annie — It's past now. Please don't talk about it any 
 more. It makes me so sore, because just when I needed 
 you most you forgot all about me. 
 
 Jim — She trusted me. Children have a natural in- 
 stinct for those things. 
 
 Annie — Children take their parents without a ques- 
 tion. Their own parents are always the greatest and 
 best in the world. You cannot go by that. 
 
 Jim — Let me take her with me. I'll take good care 
 of her. 
 
 Annie — What would the child do alone with you? 
 Jim, think of it. Think what might happen while you 
 are away. 
 
 Jim — She does need a mother's care. 
 
 Annie — Of course she does. 
 
 Jim — You won't let me have her ? 
 
 Annie — I wouldn't think of such a thing. 
 
 Jim — And if I'd have to go without her I'd be long- 
 ing for her all the time. 
 
 Annie (zvithout pathos) — And if you'd take her it 
 would break my heart. 
 
 Jim (szveetly) — Well, Annie, then we will both have 
 to take care of her together. 
 
 Annie (shakes her head in the negative) — I've gotten 
 used to it now. I would be reminded of it all the time. 
 I've been so careful not to let the children know. No, 
 it can't be. And something might happen again — 
 
 25 
 
Jim (reproachfully) — Annie ! 
 
 Annie — There, you get angry right away. You see 
 it would never do. 
 
 Jim (tenderly) — No, Annie. Only it came so sudden- 
 ly. I thought I had changed a good deal in these years, 
 while — 
 
 Annie — Don't, don't — 
 
 Jim — I won't, dear, if you say so. You see when one 
 reads a good deal and reflects you'd be surprised what 
 thoughts come to one. When I — 
 
 Annie — No, no, I cannot hear. I won't listen — 
 
 Jim — Annie, I was not going to say anything. All 
 right. What shall we do? 
 
 Annie — I don't see that anything can be done. 
 
 Jim — Nothing? Don't you think you could come 
 along with me and Rosie? 
 
 Annie — Oh, Jim. 
 
 Jim — I don't see why you couldn't. 
 
 Annie — I never dreamed of such a thing. 
 
 Jim — Didn't I always do right by you ? 
 
 Annie — Except that one time. 
 
 Jim — Except the one time. 
 
 Annie — Yes, you did. I couldn't say otherwise. 
 
 Jim — You never knew me to do you a harm ? 
 
 Annie — No. 
 
 Jim — And I could fix you up as good as this any- 
 way. And if we pull together — I think we might try. 
 
 Annie — What's the use. 
 
 Jim — It can't go on this way. You see that for 
 yourself. 
 
 Annie — I'm old now. It seems hard to make a 
 change. 
 
 Jim — Old? You're not old. You've only suffered. 
 We'll begin all over again. 
 
 26 
 
Annie — Do you think there's any use? 
 
 Jim — You'll see — we'll have better luck this time. 
 Say yes, Annie. 
 
 Annie — Oh, Jim. 
 
 Jim — You don't know how I've been longing for you. 
 How I've counted the days — 
 
 Annie — At least I have a home for the children here. 
 What do you intend to do? 
 
 (Jim pulls a roll of bills out of his pocket.) 
 
 Jim — It's not much, but I've saved it all for you. 
 That will take us somewhere — anywhere you say. I'll 
 give the children a better home than this. Come, Annie. 
 Say yes. Do it for Mamie and Rosie. 
 
 Annie (relenting) — It's just for their sake that I 
 don't want to do it. 
 
 Jim — Don't you think I have enough sense to let the 
 past be the past? Don't you think if I had you again to 
 take care of we'd both be happy and forget? 
 
 Annie — Don't you ask because you want the child to 
 cheer you up? 
 
 Jim — No, Annie. I want to cheer you up and the 
 child. 
 
 Annie — I can't say you look that way. 
 
 Jim — But I feel that way. I see my way clear be- 
 fore me. And I know some day I shall make you be- 
 lieve. Then I shall be satisfied. And I shall — I shall. 
 You'll see the child will bridge it over. She gave me so 
 much to hope for — so much to look forward to. Come, 
 Annie, let us forget a while and remember what came 
 long, long ago when we were both young. 
 
 Annie — Yes, Jim. I'll remember and forget. 
 
 (Jim embraces her gently. He becomes more and 
 more jubilant.) 
 
 Jim — Annie, we'll start all over again. You'll take 
 
 27 
 
care of our little home, and when I come home I'll take 
 care of the garden. Do you remember the pleasure we 
 used to take in it? Do you remember the bench where 
 we sat and tried to count the fire flies? That was home. 
 This is no home. Poor, poor Annie. How were you 
 able to live through it all ? I'll run now and get the chil- 
 dren. I most forgot them. Rosie and Mamie. How 
 Mamie has changed. She does not remember me at all. 
 [ suppose she is shy. But that will soon wear away. 
 She'll be all right by and by. (Searches for his hat.) 
 I'll go there and bring them right home. And they're 
 not to work any more. And Rosie shall sleep undis- 
 turbed, and no one shall awaken her until her little body 
 and soul are rested. 
 
 Annie — Jim, don't go for them now. 
 
 Jim — Why not? 
 
 Annie — I'd rather you'd wait a little. 
 
 Jim — The sooner we start the better. 
 
 Annie — We couldn't get away for a few days anyway. 
 
 Jim — But let me go. I must tell them. 
 
 Annie — This evening will be time enough. 
 
 Jim — I'm all impatience, I can hardly wait. Why 
 don't you want me to go ? 
 
 Annie — I have a particular reason. 
 
 Jim — What is it? Why don't you want me to go? 
 
 Annie — We'll talk it over this evening and see what 
 had best be done. 
 
 Jim — I wish you'd let me go. I'm like a school boy. 
 We'll be so happy. So happy. But my happiest day will 
 be the day you believe in me. 
 
 Annie — Have some breakfast. 
 
 Jim — But then I shall go directly — To what factory 
 do they go ? 
 
 28 
 
II 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
 Stern Ruin's plough — share drives, elate. 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 — Robert Burns. 
 
 An office containing a large desk, two chairs, files. A 
 large double door, center back, zvhich admits of a vieu 
 into the machine room zvhere men, zvomen and girls are 
 doing heavy work, children are walking back and forth 
 bending under their burden. 
 
 When door is open the din of the machines reverbe- 
 rates, but as soon as the doors are closed the noise is modi- 
 fied, so that zvhat is said on the stage can be heard. To the 
 right behind the desk a door leading into a private room. 
 A windozv to the left, and door catercorncr to the left 
 leading to a main hall. As the curtain rises no one is on 
 the stage, but you hear voices of tzvo men, who soon 
 enter from private room — Gregory, a young dandy with 
 insignificant countenance, Bates an attractive business 
 man. 
 
 Gregory — Deuced bad day. Is it always like this 
 here? It's the gloomiest place I've ever seen. 
 
 Bates — It usually rains on a holiday. 
 
 Gregory — Holiday ? 
 
 Bates — Washington's Birthday, to-morrow. 
 
 Gregory — That's so. To resume our business. So you 
 are satisfied, Mr. Bates? 
 
 29 
 
Bates — Fairly, Mr. Gregory. This year we'll make a 
 good showing. 
 
 Gregory — Well, to tell you the truth, the governor 
 doesn't think that way. We've put in a lot of machinery, 
 and there don't seem to be returns in proportion. 
 
 Bates — The accounts I sent in certainly were very 
 encouraging, and as the hands get more used to the ma- 
 chinery we'll have still better results. 
 
 Gregory — Tell you the truth, the governor was very 
 much put out. He did not think business was as good 
 as could have been expected. I must look into the matter. 
 The business ought to throw off anyway at least 5 or 6 
 per cent. more. 
 
 Bates — Impossible. I don't see how that can be done. 
 
 Gregory — Why, man, for one thing your wage list is 
 entirely too high. 
 
 Bates — No, indeed. That's the wages they get here. 
 I don't think I could cut them down. 
 
 Gregory — Then you'll have to dispense with some 
 hands. 
 
 Bates — Impossible. 
 
 Gregory — It won't take me long to find a way in 
 which you can economize. 
 
 Bates — I know my business and I know I have the 
 cheapest man in every department. 
 
 Gregory — Then all I can see is that you engage wom- 
 en in place of S9me of the men, or younger men. They're 
 cheaper and just as satisfactory. 
 
 Bates — The work is very hard on the women. 
 
 Gregory — They'll get used to it. 
 
 Bates — I don't think they can. 
 
 Gregory — We'll have to make a trial, that's all. They 
 may turn out better than you think. 
 
 Bates — I will try if I have to. 
 
 30 
 
Gregory — And advance the girls — 
 
 Bates — I'll follow orders, but I don't see any good 
 coming from it. 
 
 Gregory — It don't hurt to make a trial. The 
 children can step into the place of the girls, and that 
 solves the wages question in a minute. 
 
 Bates — The children cannot do the work. 
 
 Gregory — Have you tried? 
 
 Bates — No. . 
 
 Gregory — Then you don't know. 
 
 Bates — They haven't enough endurance. 
 
 Gregory — Why, Mr. Bates, who would have thought 
 that children could ever do all they can do. They really 
 do surprisingly good work. We'll put my suggestions on 
 trial, and if they don't work no harm's done. Not all at 
 once, of course, but gradually. 
 
 Bates — The children in these parts are small and not 
 very strong. This work doesn't improve their health 
 exactly. 
 
 Gregory — I will admit I do know of more pleasant 
 places. The air is abominable. (Drazus out handker- 
 chief, inhales with satisfaction. Looks at lapel of his 
 coat where bouquet is fastened.) Fine time I gave the 
 boys last night. Haven't been to bed yet. If I hadn't 
 promised the governor to have this interview before he 
 calls me up, I know where I'd be now. But I say duty 
 first. (Takes flowers out of buttonhole, throzvs them 
 away.) One reason it's so unpleasant here is because 
 you haven't a window open. One of the first necessities 
 of life. Fresh air. You must see to it that there is al- 
 ways a good supply. It's better than food or sleep. 
 
 Bates — You know we cannot have the windows open 
 with our work. 
 
 31 
 
Gregory — But wherever it is practicable and whenever 
 it is possible. 
 
 Bates — We can open them in one or two rooms, but 
 that does not cut any figure. 
 
 Gregory — That is just where the mistake is made. 
 You think this and that is a trifle, but these trifles make 
 the great sums. But I must insist upon good ventilation. 
 They will work better for it and it pays us in the end. 
 There is no reason why these people should not be as well 
 off as other people. No brain work required — the only 
 work that counts. Most of them are not able to read and 
 write, and when opportunity is offered them to improve 
 they prefer to agitate. Happiness depends upon the at- 
 titude of the mind, and the sooner this is recognized the 
 better. Every one must work. I work. I work. What 
 am I here for? Work. Certainly not for pleasure. But 
 when one's sleeves are not rolled up and physical activ- 
 ities are not in evidence it does not count for work — for 
 some people. 
 
 Bates — They complain a good deal more when they 
 are out of work. 
 
 Gregory — Of course they do. If they'd lay aside 
 enough money to take them through slack times they'd 
 welcome it. I have a Sunday school. You ought to hear 
 me talk. I take great pleasure in it. I am a leading spir- 
 it. My talks are regularly reported in the papers, be- 
 cause I know what the people want. (Looks at his 
 watch.) But it's time for me to go. I'm sorry I can't 
 go further into the subject. It's so interesting. I 
 promised the boys to give them a good dinner. The one 
 thing most needed is to understand all sides of a ques- 
 tion. (Preparing to go out.) It's a funny world. Each 
 one striving for more and more and no one seems con- 
 scious of his well being. Now don't forget about the 
 
 32 
 
air. I'll report to the governor that I have arranged 
 everything. It'll be twelve soon, I think while I'm here 
 I'll give the men a little talk. It's good to make them 
 feel you take an interest. 
 
 (Bates rings a bell. Children, zvomen and men ar- 
 range themselves at door centre back and machine room. 
 Gregory stands in doorzvay.) 
 
 Gregory — Friends: I feel the desire before leaving 
 to see you all and to speak to you. Unfortunately my 
 time is limited — the case of all workers — so that I have 
 only a short time to address you to-day. We have gone 
 through a year which was hard on all of us. But I am 
 glad to say the country is rallying with renewed strength 
 from this stage of depression. The cofifers of the banks 
 are filling again — filling because of the wonderful pro- 
 ductive power of this wonderful country of ours. Credit 
 is again extended to give you new opportunities for work. 
 The wheat crop has been unsurpassed, the exportations 
 exceeding those of any year. The price has soared to 
 unprecedented heights. The mines and railroads are 
 again working to their full capacity; wherever you look 
 prosperity has returned. We all revive by these cheerful 
 aspects. You may look to the future with confidence, 
 that you will have work — plenty of work. For you 
 there will be work wherever you stretch your hands. If 
 not here, elsewhere, but there will be no lack of it. We 
 appreciate the workman to-day. We feel his value more 
 than ever. That is why I call you friends. There must 
 be an understanding between employer and employee, 
 that, just as you cannot get along without us, we are al- 
 most in the same position. Our interests are your in- 
 terests. If you do your share we will not fail to do our 
 share. If you do not do your duty we must fail you. 
 The captains of industry, realizing this, are drawing the 
 
 53 
 
cords tighter and tighter, so that unless we wish to be 
 entirely ensnared in the meshes we must hold together. 
 We must show a bold front. It would be bad for our 
 country if wealth and poverty were too widely separate. 
 Once in that condition we would soon return to the des- 
 potism of the Middle Ages. Now each of you has it in 
 his power to rise. No eminence is too lofty. There is still 
 opportunity for each of you. And honesty in your deal- 
 ings, conscientiousness in your work, prudence in your 
 living are the rungs of the ladder. With this I shall close, 
 certain of the fact that some among you will reach the 
 crest on this new wave of prosperity. 
 
 (A cheer from the crowd. Gregory shakes hands 
 with a few. Gregory and Bates leave together, talking in 
 an undertone. The people disperse ; Mamie, Kate, Jenny, 
 Bertha, Rosie remain.) 
 
 Kate — Ain't he just grand ! 
 
 Jenny — He's too lovely for anything. 
 
 Kate — And the way he talked. 
 
 Bertha — He must be awfully good. 
 
 Kate — And smart. 
 
 Bertha — He's a fine gentleman, any one can see that. 
 
 (Jenny saunters out of the room.) 
 
 Bertha — What have you got? 
 
 Rosie — A flower. 
 
 Bertha — Where did you get it? 
 
 Rosie — I found it. 
 
 Bertha — Let me smell it. I guess he lost it. 
 
 (Rosie holds it to her nose.) 
 
 Bertha — I haven't seen a flower since mother's 
 funeral. Don't they have grand flowers at funerals, 
 though. That's all that flowers are for, anyway. 
 
 Kate — That's the only time we see any, anyway. 
 
 Rosie — They use them for hats, too. 
 
 34 
 
Bertha — Orrificial ones, not real ones. Ain't it just 
 grand ! It's a rose, ain't it ? 
 
 Rosie — No, it's a coronation ; my grandmother makes 
 them. 
 
 Bertha — Let me smell of it once more. 
 
 Rosie — You'll spoil it if you touch it so much. 
 
 Mamie — I'll put it in your hair. 
 
 Rosie — I may lose it. 
 
 Mamie — I'll put it in tight. 
 
 Bertha — That's just the right place for that corona- 
 tion. 
 
 Rosie — Do you suppose he'll come back for it and 
 want it again? 
 
 Bertha — He may have thrown it away. 
 
 Rosie — I hope so. 
 
 Kate — Does your mother know? 
 
 Mamie — Yes. 
 
 Kate — What did she say? 
 
 Mamie — We had an awful fuss, but it came out all 
 right. 
 
 Kate — Can you go? 
 
 Mamie — Yes. 
 
 Kate— EnWy. 
 
 Mamie — It's better she knows. I hate to do any- 
 thing behind her back. But it's awfully hard sometimes. 
 
 Kate — It's the same at home. 
 
 (Exit Bertha, Jenny comes back.) 
 
 Mamie — I guess it's alike all over. There's a reason. 
 But it's awfully mean that a little thing like that should 
 make such a fuss. 
 
 Jenny — What should make such a fuss? 
 
 Mamie — Nothing. 
 
 Jenny — Oh. 
 
 Kate — We were only talking about a dress. 
 
 35 
 
Jenny — Well the new styles certainly are fussy. Are 
 you going to get a new one ? 
 
 Mamie — I don't want to talk about it. 
 
 Jenny — Well you needn't if you don't want to. But 
 one thing I can tell you, I can give you some pointers 
 about dresses. 
 
 Kate — Tell, Jenny. 
 
 Mamie — He mightn't like it. 
 
 Jenny — If you let him make rules for you at the start 
 he'll get the best of you in the end. Do tell. I'm dying 
 to know. 
 
 Mamie — I hate to refuse, but I wish you wouldn't 
 ask. 
 
 Jenny — If Kate knows, it won't take long for the 
 whole world to know. 
 
 Kate — The idea ! 
 
 Mamie — I'm going to the Knickerbocker Ball 
 (whispers) with Mr. Bates. Don't tell anybody. 
 
 Jenny — Whew, Mamie Lovejoy. You are the luckiest 
 girl I ever seen. Say, well I declare! 
 
 Kate — Didn't you notice anything going on? 
 
 Jenny — But I never thought he'd take her out. It's 
 taken me clean off my feet. What are you going to 
 wear? 
 
 Mamie — Light blue. 
 
 Jenny — The color's all right. But how's it going to 
 be made ? 
 
 Mamie — Just like the ones in the society news in the 
 Sunday papers. 
 
 Jenny — Do you follow those, too? You'll have to get 
 a dress — (Makes a sign indicating great beauty). 
 
 Mamie — I'm sure it's going to be awfully pretty. 
 
 Jenny — Pretty! Did you say pretty? It must be 
 ravishing — ripping — it must be a stunner. 
 
 36 
 
Mamie — It won't be a stunner, but I'm sure it'll be 
 real nice. 
 
 Jenny — You might as well stay home as go there 
 looking real nice. If you haven't got a tiptop dress — I 
 know what I'm talking about. 
 
 Kate — You'd think you were the only one that knew 
 anything about anything. 
 
 Jenny — I should think I knew more about those 
 things than you do. Did you ever keep company with a 
 gentleman who could afford to keep an apartment for 
 you and drive to the theatre in a carriage — or an auto- 
 mobile ? 
 
 Rosie — Did he do all that for you ? 
 
 Jenny — No, he didn't, but he promised to. 
 
 Kate — I wouldn't do such a thing for anything. Dis- 
 graceful. 
 
 Jenny — You needn't talk. If you had a chance you 
 might change your mind. Now, Mamie, have your dress 
 made just as swell as ever you can, no matter what it 
 costs. 
 
 Mamie — I'd like to look nice. I may never go again. 
 
 Jenny — You won't unless you do. But it's not for 
 yourself, it's for the others. I wish I was in your place. 
 Have you got anything to wear 'roun' your neck ? 
 
 Mamie — No. 
 
 Jenny — I can help you out with that. I've got lots of 
 things ; you can have your choice. 
 
 Mamie — Thank you, Jenny. It's awfully good of you. 
 
 Jenny — Then you'll want gloves. Long gloves. I 
 know where you can get beauties. 
 
 Mamie — Yes. 
 
 Jenny — And slippers. 
 
 Mamie (more and more depressed) — Yes. 
 
 Jenny — And a fan. 
 
 3T 
 
Mamie (mechanically) — And a fan. 
 
 Jenny — And a jupe. 
 
 Mamie (waking up) — What's that? 
 
 Jenny — French for handsome, rustUng, silk petticoat. 
 Have you got any of those things ? 
 
 Mamie — No, and I don't know how I shall get them. 
 
 Jenny — Oh, I'll go with you. I love to go shopping. 
 It's such fun. 
 
 Mamie — I don't think I can afford — 
 
 Jenny — Ain't he going to pay for them? 
 
 Mamie — Why, no, Jenny ! 
 
 Jenny — He ain't, the old stingy? 
 
 Mamie — Who ever heard of such a thing! 
 
 Jenny — Well, who's going to pay? 
 
 Mamie — Why I shall. 
 
 Jenny — I thought you said you couldn't afford it. 
 
 Mamie — I've saved a little, and I expect to pay it off 
 working overtime. 
 
 Jenny — You are a chump ! You want to work over- 
 time two months to have a good time one evening. 
 
 Mamie (resigned) — I suppose so. 
 
 Jenny — Let me tell you, you won't have a good time 
 either. You'll be thinking of the money you owe all the 
 time. I've been there myself (affectedly) once upon a 
 time. 
 
 Mamie — Perhaps I'd better not go. 
 
 Jenny — Not go? You're nutty! — Of course you'll 
 go. You'll never have a chance like this again. It'll be 
 the making of you. Take my word for ft. Now listen 
 to me. Get everything you need of the swellest — don't 
 stint anything. You'll need an evening cloak, too, but I 
 can borrow one for you from a friend. Get the latest, 
 the best. And, of course, you'll have your hair dressed. 
 You know a real gentleman don't like to go out with a 
 
 38 
 
lady he can't show off with. You take a girl that ain't 
 well dressed, she can be the best girl in the world, and 
 she'll have all the time to darn her own stockings and 
 little brother Johnny's, too. And take a girl that looks 
 smart, she's took out to all the shows and don't have to 
 darn no stockings. 
 
 Mamie — I wish you weren't so smart. You take the 
 pleasure out of everything. 
 
 Jenny — You don't deserve your good luck. Instead 
 of being grateful. I don't want you to make a fool of 
 yourself, there now. 
 
 Mamie — I'm sure it's awfully good of you, — but real- 
 ly I don't think I had better go. 
 
 Jenny — Don't say that again in my presence. 
 
 Mamie — It's no use. 
 
 Jenny — If you're going to let those little things worry 
 you. You mustn't think of them. Remember you've got 
 the chance to go to the swellest affair of the season — the 
 swellest — such luck ! I don't see what he invited you for. 
 You might meet a millionaire — he might marry you on 
 the spot and you'd be fixed for life. 
 
 Kate — What beautiful dreams, Jenny. 
 
 Jenny — No, true and honest. All a girl needs is to 
 have a chance. 
 
 ICate — Why didn't you marry a millionaire yourself, 
 then, when he promised to go to the theatre in a carriage 
 — or an automobile? 
 
 Jenny — You don't think I'd hitch myself to anybody? 
 I'm very particular. You don't catch me marrying any 
 old thing. But that ain't the question now. The thing 
 is, you do yourself an injustice by taking this respon- 
 sibility upon yourself. Do you think if a gentleman in- 
 vited me I'd pay for my clothes with the money I earn 
 so hard ? 
 
 39 
 
Mamie — You can do just as you please about that. 
 
 Jenny — Well, ain't he getting pleasure out of it? 
 
 Mamie — He's inviting me to give me a good time. 
 
 Jenny — Mamie Lovejoy, you have the queerest, 
 moldiest, old-fashionedest ideas I ever came across. Re- 
 member a man pleases only himself. Put that in writing. 
 Hang it in your drawing-room, your boudoir and any 
 place it is likely to catch your eye. If it didn't suit 
 him, you couldn't get him to take you, and if you wasted 
 to a shadow pining for it. 
 
 Mamie — Jenny ! 
 
 Jenny — He's calculating all the time how much fun 
 he can get out of it. If you refuse you'd see how mad 
 he'd get, and he'd be bored all evening even if he did take 
 another girl instead. No saying how he'd feel. So the 
 least he can do is not to let you go to any expense. 
 
 Mamie — But see all it costs him. 
 
 Jenny — But see all he earns. No matter how hard 
 we work we can hardly fill the bread-basket — much less 
 pay— 
 
 Mamie — But I'll never take a present like that from a 
 man. I'd rather work my fingers off. 
 
 Jenny — Don't be a fool. Tell him you'd love to go, 
 but you haven't got a dress. You will when you get wise. 
 It's no use fighting against it. 
 
 Mamie — It's no use struggling for it. It's better to 
 give up 
 
 Jenny — What's the use of living then ? Just to work ? 
 Take it you have a bully good time, and he'd say to you — 
 "There's another affair, let's go." What would you say? 
 
 Mamie — I don't know. 
 
 Jenny — You'd accept. You couldn't help yourself. 
 Then it'll start all over again. New dress, new gloves, 
 new debts. 
 
 40 
 
Mamie — I'd do nothing of the kind. I'd wear the one 
 I just got. 
 
 Jenny — You'd do nothing of the kind. You'd trip to 
 the dressmaker and be fitted all over again. 
 
 Mamie — I wouldn't — there now. 
 
 Jenny — Suppose it would be a theatre next time. You 
 couldn't go to a theatre in a ball dress, could you ? 
 
 Mamie (dejectedly) — No. 
 
 Jenny — I know those things better than you do. 
 When a man invites you to an ice cream soda, he expects 
 you to be dressed in an ice cream soda dress. 
 
 Mamie — What's a poor girl going to do? 
 
 Jenny — It's expected of her. She must get the money 
 somehow. And she might as well not try to make a se- 
 cret of it, for then her life is made worse than hell for 
 her. They know why they keep the wages so low. 
 
 Rosie — Why? 
 
 Mamie — I won't go ; no, I won't go. 
 
 Jenny — You have to risk something. You don't want 
 to spend all your life like this, do you? 
 
 Mamie — How do other girls do? 
 
 Jenny — Some that nobody cares about or are silly 
 like you, sit home all their lives. Those are the models 
 that are held up to us. Then there are some that do as 
 I told you. Then there are some that have rich papas — 
 and there are some — you won't believe me — there are 
 some that have money of their own. 
 
 Rosie — It's no wonder that rich girls are so good that 
 they all marry princes. 
 
 Mamie — Rosie, have you been listening all the time? 
 
 Rosie — Almost. 
 
 Mamie — You shouldn't listen to things you have no 
 business to hear. Go somewhere else. 
 
 Rosie — I don't care. I don't want to listen to them in 
 
 41 
 
there. They're talking only of the man that surprised 
 his wife in bed and killed the man. I hate to hear about 
 murders. 
 
 Jenny — Why don't you go to Fanny? 
 Rosie — She only talks about her sweethearts. I want 
 to (puts her arm around Mamie's zvaist) — I want to hear 
 about the nice time you are going to have. Don't let 
 Jenny worry you. She's awfully smart, but we'll man- 
 age to pay. See, I've sold my lunch. I don't care if I 
 have to go without my lunch for a year, but you're going 
 to get your dress right. 
 
 Jenny — There you've got it. Then you'll stint your- 
 self, and the first thing you'll know you'll be hungry and 
 old and ugly. 
 
 (Mamie makes movement of impatience.) 
 Rosie — I'm that anyway. 
 
 Jenny — What's the use of balking. Take things as 
 they are. Where did you get your education anyway? 
 Is there no one to advise you? How's a girl going to 
 make her way in the world if she ain't taught any sense ? 
 Mamie — I did get an education, and a pretty good one, 
 too. 
 
 Jenny — But one that's not going to do you any good. 
 When I hear you talk it's as though I hear my grand- 
 mother talk. But times have changed since our grand- 
 mother's time, and our grandmothers have changed since 
 their time. 
 
 Rosie — Yes, I think we ought to know everything. 
 Jenny — You're on the right track, young lady. It's 
 the rules of the game of life we must learn. If we don't 
 learn to get the best of life, life will get the best of us, — 
 and pretty quick work, too. 
 Mamie — And conscience? 
 Jenny (laughs) — Conscience! — My conscience. 
 
 42 
 
Mamie! Why this extravagance. Good money is better 
 than anything. A heavy conscience is Hghter than an 
 empty purse. 
 
 Mamie — Do you mean all you say? 
 
 Jenny — Mostly. Promise me one thing. 
 
 Mamie — I'll not promise anything. 
 
 Jenny — But you'll take my advice? 
 
 Mamie — No. 
 
 Jennie — I know one thing. You're so good you'll be 
 punished for it some day. See if you don't. 
 
 Mamie — I know you mean well. It sounds bad, but 
 there's much truth in it. 
 
 Jenny — Now you're talking. Of course there is. 
 
 Mamie — I have another plan. If that works I'll be 
 all right. Don't be angry. 
 
 Jenny — Of course, I'm not angry. You're always 
 afraid of making a person angry. But you'll come to my 
 way of thinking some day. You must. But then you'll 
 be head over heels in debt, and you'll be forced to make 
 terms, while now you may get what you want for the ask- 
 ing. 
 
 Mamie (despairingly) — Oh, Jenny! 
 
 Jenny (consolingly) — Do take sense. You've got the 
 chance to make your fortune, and I want to see you make 
 it. 
 
 Mamie — Who'd care about me? 
 
 Jenny — Don't you think you might catch Mr. Bates 
 himself? He must think a good deal of you to ask you 
 to go out with him. 
 
 Mamie (brightening) — Do you think so? 
 
 Jenny — It's the most natural thing in the world. 
 Haven't you thought of that? You've as good a chance 
 as anybody. 
 
 Mamie — Oh, Jenny. 
 
 43 
 
Jenny — Be sensible, for heaven's sake. Don't spoil it 
 for yourself. Play the game smart ; you'll win. 
 
 Rosie — I'll help you win, Mamie. But we'll play the 
 game fair. Won't we, Mamie? 
 
 Jenny — You'll spoil it for Mamie if you don't look 
 out. 
 
 Rosie — I won't. I'll stand by Mamie. 
 
 Jenny — Don't stand by, for goodness' sake, when 
 you're not wanted. 
 
 Rosie — No, I'll protect Mamie. That's what I mean. 
 
 (Enter Bates.) 
 
 Rosie — We'll play fair. 
 
 Jenny — How d'you know whether the other one is 
 playing fair. 
 
 Bates — You know you're not to stay in here during 
 lunch hour. 
 
 Jenny — It's rainin'. 
 
 Bates — I don't care. Find some other place to go — 
 
 Jenny — There's no better place except the streets, and 
 you wouldn't send us there, would you? 
 
 Bates (puts them out) — None of your back talk. 
 
 (Bates is alone for a little zvhile. Enter Mamie zuith 
 cloak and hat on.) 
 
 Bates — Come right in. Take your things off. Sit 
 down. What can I do for you ? 
 
 Mamie — I came to tell you — 
 
 Bates— Wd\? 
 
 Mamie — To ask you — 
 
 Bates (brightening) — What did you come in for? 
 What did you want to ask me ? 
 
 Mamie — To ask you whether — 
 
 Bates — Anything about the ball ? 
 
 Mamie (nods in the negative) — It's about money. I 
 need — 
 
 44 
 
Bates — About your things ? 
 
 Mamie — I don't think — Mr. Bates — I would like to 
 have a raise. 
 
 Bates — I don't think I can do it. Why do you ask? 
 
 Mamie — Because I need it — no — because — I don't 
 think I can — I may not need the raise. 
 
 Bates — Do you ask for the raise because I am friendly 
 with you? 
 
 Mamie (startled) — No, Mr. Bates. I never thought 
 of that. If I had thought you would take it that way I 
 never should have asked. I asked because I thought I 
 ought to have it. 
 
 Bates — Is that so? Let me tell you before we go any 
 further that I never allow my private affairs to influence 
 my business affairs. They are two distinct factors, en- 
 tirely unrelated to each other. 
 
 Mamie — You gave Bertha and Jenny a raise. 
 
 Bates — That may be. 
 
 Mamie — I am here as long as they are. 
 
 Bates — And what have you to say about Minnie, who 
 has been here for sixteen years and still has six dollars a 
 week. We went over the list very carefully and found 
 no reason for giving you a raise. It's a matter of prin- 
 ciple with me to act in strict accordance with the interest 
 of the firm, and I could not make an exception even with 
 you. 
 
 (Bates watches her carefully.) 
 
 Mamie — If it were ever so little it would be a great 
 help. 
 
 Bates — I am very sorry that I have to refuse you. As 
 it is, the wage list is very high. I would do it if it were 
 in my power, but remember business is business. 
 
 Mamie — It's not fair. I've been here so long. 
 
 Bates (fiiore kindly) — But you know the moment you 
 
 45 
 
would step out of your place it would be filled im- 
 mediately. 
 
 (Mamie turns to go.) 
 
 Bates (encouragingly) — I suppose you need the 
 money ? 
 
 Mamie — I don't know — yes, sir. 
 
 Bates (jovially) — That's good. You're not sure 
 whether you need it or not. You're spending more 
 money on your clothes and fineries ? 
 
 Mamie — I cannot say that I am. 
 
 Bates— Not for the ball ? 
 
 Mamie {resolutely) — No, sir. 
 
 Bates — You will surely need something for the ball. 
 
 Mamie — No, sir. 
 
 Bates — Now don't fib. You are surely going to some 
 expense on account of the ball. 
 
 Mamie — No, sir. 
 
 Bates — That's impossible. How will you get the 
 things ? 
 
 Mamie — I will be properly dressed. 
 
 Bates — Of course you will. And I'm sure you are 
 buying the most expensive you can find. 
 
 Mamie — No, indeed. 
 
 Bates (facetiously) — Now you have given yourself 
 away. I knew you were getting things. You will spend 
 your last cent for fineries, you women. 
 
 Mamie — You'd never take me again if I didn't look 
 nice. 
 
 Bates (amused) — Again? 
 
 Mamie (startled) — I think I'd rather not go. 
 
 Bates (reassuringly) — It only amused me. Don't be 
 angry. I thought you mightn't care to go with me again 
 after you had been with me once. That's what amused 
 me. 
 
 46 
 
(Mamie appeased.) 
 
 Bates — We'll find a way out, so you won't have to 
 worry. 
 
 Mamie (startled) — I don't want to find a way out. 
 
 Bates — Why, Mamie. You haven't heard what I was 
 about to say. 
 
 Mamie — I don't want to know. 
 
 Bates — See, see the little girl. I wonder what you 
 think I'm going to say. I thought you were such a little 
 innocent. You don't want to know after I got you into 
 this difficulty? 
 
 Mamie — No, I don't want to know. 
 
 Bates — Come, child, I'm taking you to the Casino — 
 
 Mamie — You said Knickerbocker. 
 
 Bates — Did I say Knickerbocker? I must have for- 
 gotten altogether that I have a very important engage- 
 ment on that evening. 
 
 (Mamie observes him questioningly.) 
 
 Bates — But the following night is the Casino Ball. 
 It's all the same where we go, as long as we have a good 
 time. Isn't that so? I think you will enjoy the Casino 
 even better than the Knickerbocker. What will you 
 wear? 
 
 Mamie — Mr. Bates — I don't think I want to — 
 
 Bates (coaxingly) — I'm awfully sorry, but really — 
 
 Mamie — It's not that — 
 
 Bates — You don't think the Casino good enough? 
 
 Mamie — Oh, yes. I've never been to one or the other 
 — but— 
 
 Bates — Then there's no excuse. What will you wear ? 
 
 Mamie — If I go I'll wear light blue. 
 
 Bates — Light blue. Well, well — light blue will be 
 very becoming to you. Have you bought the dress al- 
 ready ? 
 
 47 
 
Mamie — Yes. 
 
 Bates — Will it be ready in time? — And will you let 
 me pay for it ? 
 
 Mamie — No indeed, Mr. Bates. 
 
 Bates— Why not? 
 
 Mamie — Because. 
 
 Bates — Because is no reason. 
 
 (Mamie tosses her head.) 
 
 Bates — Do you think I could have a good time if I 
 thought you had any extra worry about this ball ? 
 
 (Mamie shrugs her shoulders.) 
 
 Bates — I don't believe you, Mamie. You don't want 
 to spoil my pleasure. 
 
 (Mamie shrugs her shoulders.) 
 
 Bates — No, no, I don't believe you. You wouldn't be 
 so cruel. Are you cruel? A cruel, heartless little thing? 
 
 Mamie — No. 
 
 Bates — Of course not. You wouldn't hurt a fly. And 
 you won't hurt me either. 
 
 Mamie — I don't want to pain you, I'm sure. But I 
 won't have you pay for the dress. 
 
 Bates — You don't want to pain me and yet you are 
 paining me. I never should have thought that of you. 
 How can I enjoy myself one minute? 
 
 Mamie — I don't care about that. 
 
 Bates — You don't believe one word you say. 
 
 Mamie — Yes, I do. I mean it. 
 
 Bates — Then you don't care for me the least little bit ? 
 
 Mamie — I don't care when you say such things. 
 
 Bates — There's no wrong. Why do you feel like that 
 about it? 
 
 Mamie — Because I think you don't respect me. M«i 
 don't think much — 
 
 48 
 
Bates (astonished) — Don't respect you? Do you 
 think I would invite you out if I didn't respect you? 
 
 (No answer.) 
 
 Bates — Tell me, Mamie, do you really think I don't 
 respect you ? 
 
 Mamie — No. 
 
 Bates — And when I don't talk about such awful, 
 awful things as taking some care from you, do you care 
 a little about me then ? 
 
 (Mamie, undecided zvhat to say, draws azvay.) 
 
 Bates — Is that how much you think of me that you 
 draw away? Don't you care for me the least little bit? 
 T care a great deal about you. More than you think. 
 (Persuasively.) Come, Mamie, do you ever think of me ? 
 
 (Pause.) 
 
 Bates — I'm waiting. 
 
 (Mamie nods reluctantly.) 
 
 Bates (triumphantly) — There now. I didn't think 
 you were such a little fibber. What makes you so hard to 
 deal with ? 
 
 Mamie — I don't know. I don't think I am. 
 
 Bates — Yes, you are. But that's just why I care so 
 much. Are you afraid of me? 
 
 Mamie — A little — You are so different from — 
 
 Bates — I was right. I believe I'm even a little re- 
 pulsive to you. You have an aversion against me, haven't 
 you ? I don't believe you care for me. But I shall make 
 you care for me. 
 
 (Mamie looks at him. He puts his arm around her 
 shoulder. Rosie looks in centre back. Pauses a moment, 
 retires.) 
 
 Bates — You could not be afraid of me if you cared 
 for me. 
 
 Mamie — I must go away. 
 
 49 
 
(Bates shows that he is aware that some one has been 
 at the door, locks it.) 
 
 Mamie — Mr. Bates ! 
 
 Bates — I don't want any one to come in here. (Laughs 
 reassuringly.) You must stay here until I've found out 
 whether you care for me as much as I care for you. 
 
 (Mamie attempts to leave.) 
 
 Bates (strokes her hands) — That's just how it stands. 
 Is there any harm in loving you ? Mamie, my child, you 
 are a foolish little girl. You do not realize the strength 
 of a man's love. To you it means nothing. You have 
 not seen enough of the world to appreciate its value. 
 You throw it aside. It does not matter to you whether it 
 will come again or not. It may not come again, and you 
 will long for it. You'll wish you had the chance again. 
 You say you care for me. (Strokes her hand with great 
 deference.) How can I believe that? You are afraid of 
 me. You do not trust me. That is very hard. Have I 
 ever given you any reason not to trust me ? 
 
 (Pause.) 
 
 Bates (persuasively) — Mamie. 
 
 Mamie — No. 
 
 Bates — And yet I know you do not trust me. You 
 say you care for me. Perhaps you say it because you are 
 afraid of me. Or afraid to pain me. Do not say it if it is 
 not true. What would be the use of telling untruths. 
 But you have not been frank with me. You tried to hide 
 about the dress from me — and only after long question- 
 ing have I found out the truth. 
 
 Mamie (pleadingly) — Oh, Mr. Bates. 
 
 Bates — Never mind. Assure me that you are not un- 
 truthful. That's all I want to know. 
 
 Mamie — Oh, Mr. Bates, you ought to know better 
 than that. 
 
 50 
 
Bates — No, dear. I don't know you as well as I love 
 you. But you see if there is anything I despise it's un- 
 truthfulness. So many women are untruthful. It's a 
 failing of the sex. You really can't help it. But I can- 
 not stand untruthfulness. I abhor it. We want to know 
 each other well. We do not want to make a mistake. Is 
 it not better so? 
 
 Mamie — Yes. 
 
 Bates — You really care for me ? 
 
 Mamie — Yes, if you think well of me and trust me. 
 Otherwise I would rather — 
 
 Bates — Of course I think well of you and trust you. 
 How could I love you as I do if I did not. But I feel you 
 are afraid of me — you want to get away from me. 
 
 (Mamie assents slightly.) 
 
 Bates — If I were to kiss you you'd run away. 
 
 Mamie — I think I would. 
 
 Bates — That's just it. 
 
 Mamie — Please let me go. 
 
 Bates (very coldly) — Why certainly. If you wish to 
 go I will not detain you. I am sorry that we must part 
 like this. I hoped to hear you say some day that you 
 loved me. I do not see what I have done to be turned 
 down by you — it is too bad — but just as you say. 
 
 Mamie (softens) — I didn't mean any harm. 
 
 Bates — All in a lifetime. (Sighs.) You see, my sweet 
 girl, when I marry it is a serious matter. I have waited a 
 long, long time, because I never could find the woman 
 who would come up to my ideal. I am willing to give up 
 everything for her sake, and anxious to give her every- 
 thing to make her happy. I have a good income. I can 
 give her a comfortable home, servants, all the comforts 
 she wants — everything she wishes for. Jewelry, dress- 
 es, good times, everything. But I must make sure that 
 
 51 
 
the woman I marry really loves me for my own sake. I 
 could not stand any disappointments afterwards. I have 
 dreamed and hoped too long. I did think you might fill 
 that place. 
 
 (Paiise.) 
 
 Bates — But perhaps I have made a grave mistake. 
 
 (Pause.) 
 
 Bates — You are not old enough. You cannot feel 
 that deep love. You have not had heartaches enough 
 to mature your love. 
 
 (Suddenly, as though understanding) — Perhaps there 
 is some one else you love. 
 
 Mamie (slightly indignant) — No, no one. 
 
 Bates — No one? Are you sure? 
 
 Mamie — No. No one. 
 
 Bates — Not Sammy? 
 
 Mamie — No. 
 
 Bates — Doesn't he care for you ? 
 
 Mamie — Yes, but I don't care for him. 
 
 Bates — Mamie, Mamie, I think you care more for 
 him than you guess. 
 
 Mamie — I don't. 
 
 Bates — I'm not so sure about that. Somehow I think 
 it's not unlikely that you should think about him. Life 
 is hard for a girl when she has to work for her daily 
 bread. She needs a man to provide for her. Sammy is 
 not to be sneezed at. 
 
 Mamie — The idea, Mr. Bates. 
 
 Bates — Why not? He'd make a good husband all 
 right. 
 
 Mamie (excitedly) — But I don't love him. 
 
 Bates — Is that it? Do you know anything about 
 love? 
 
 Mamie (innocently) — I do. 
 
 52 
 
Bates (very tenderly) — You do? (Looks at her 
 'zveetly and puts his arm around her shoulder). It's not 
 5ammy ? 
 
 (Mamie nods in the negative szveetly.) 
 
 Bates — But some one else? 
 
 (Mamie nods in the affirmative.) 
 
 (Bates points to himself.) 
 
 (Mamie nods in the affirmative.) 
 
 Bates (softly) — You love me? 
 
 Mamie (scarcely audible) — Yes. 
 
 Bates (joyfully) — You dear sweet girl. If I could 
 )nly believe you. If I could only believe it. 
 
 Mamie — You can. 
 
 Bates — You would make me the happiest man on 
 iarth. Is it really, really true? 
 
 Mamie (looks up at him innocently) — Yes. 
 
 Bates — Your eyes are so true. You are ravishing. 
 
 Mamie (confidingly) — But not in these old clothes. 
 
 Bates — You shall have others. Everything you wish 
 for. 
 
 (Mamie looks at him blissfully.) 
 
 Bates — It does not seem as though it could be true. 
 It's too good. If I were only sure. I need such true, 
 deep love. 
 
 Mamie — Don't be afraid. I shall give you all you 
 need and want till my last day. 
 
 Bates — Say it again. I could hear it forever. You 
 really love me — no one else. Your heart is really free. 
 
 Mamie — All except you. 
 
 Bates — Not Sammy? 
 
 Mamie (contemptuously) — Sammy ! 
 
 Bates — But Sammy isn't half bad — and much young- 
 er than I am. See, I have gray hair already. I could 
 understand you to care for him. 
 
 53 
 
Mamie — But I really don't. 
 
 Bates — Perhaps because he's a janitor. 
 
 Mamie — Of course, that's one reason. 
 
 Bates— Thd^i's what I'm afraid of. That's my fear. 
 
 Mamie (anxiously) — What? 
 
 Bates — That you are carried away by what I have to 
 offer. It's not for myself. Tell me, Mamie. 
 
 Mamie — I have told you. 
 
 Bates — But you haven't answered. Perhaps it is the 
 life of comfort that lures you. I have not been good 
 enough to you that you should love me. 
 
 Mamie — Yes, you have. 
 
 Bates — No, -I have not. I've been hard. I refused 
 you. I pained you. I've disappointed you. And yet you 
 say you love me. How can that be true. 
 
 Mamie — But it is true. 
 
 Bates (threateningly) — Mamie, if I thought you were 
 not sincere, that other considerations prompted you to 
 say what you have said. 
 
 Mamie — No, no believe me. 
 
 Bates — Mamie, listen attentively to what I have to 
 say. You have everything to gain. There is nothing for 
 you to lose in this bargain. I shall therefore ask you for 
 one small proof. (Mamie all attention.) It is nothing to 
 you, and it shall mean all to me. If you refuse I shall 
 know you have been trifling. But do not think it will end 
 there. It will be a great blow to me that no woman can 
 be trusted. I shall banish the incident from my memory. 
 I shall not look upon your face again. You shall not set 
 foot in this building again. If you do not find work for 
 a year it will be all the same to me. If you starve I 
 shall not care. 
 
 (Mamie s face is full of care.) 
 
 Bates — Nor shall Rosie come again. I will never 
 
 54 
 
want to look at either of you again. And I'll keep my 
 word. Mark you, these doors will be closed to you. You 
 see I am a man that will not be trifled with. Nature will- 
 ed it that man shall be master. He knows best what is 
 best for little girls. Little enough he asks for all he 
 gives to women. Give yourself as a pledge. 
 
 (Mamie nestles confidingly in his arms; he looks 
 down upon her.) 
 
 Bates — I knew you would. 
 
 (Kisses her once more and drazvs her gently tozvards 
 his private room.) 
 
 Bates — You will be much happier when you have 
 placed your honor in my hands. (Draws a little more.) 
 
 Mamie — What do you want? 
 
 Bates — I want you to make good your promise. 
 
 Mamie (alarmed) — What! How! 
 
 Bates — Did you not say you would give yourself to 
 me? 
 
 Mamie (in deadly fear) — Oh ! 
 
 Bates (peremptorily) — Come, Mamie. 
 
 Mamie (tear choked) — Mr. Bates. 
 
 Bates (holds her firmly) — What do you — 
 
 Mamie (tngs) — Let me go. 
 
 Bates — You shall be mine. 
 
 Mamie — Let me go. Let me go. I say let me go. 
 
 Bates — Not until — 
 
 Mamie — Let me go ! 
 
 Bates — You are mine. 
 
 Mamie — No, no, Mr. Bates ! 
 
 Bates (passionately) — Yes, yes, Mr. Bates ! (Catches 
 her lip in his arms, presses kisses on her lips.) Don't 
 you see, Mamie, I love you. I love you. I must love you. 
 I must. I must. One kiss, Mamie. Once, once. Mamie, 
 my sweetheart. My love. Once, only once. I cannot 
 
 55 
 
live without you. Let me kiss you and love you. You 
 don't know what happiness is until you have loved. It 
 will be paradise. (Mamie succumbs more and more to 
 his passion.) Mamie, my love, Mamie, say you love me. 
 Love me. Love me. My darling. My sweetheart. 
 Mamie puts her arm around his neck.) 
 
Ill 
 
 Where there is suffering there is sacred ground. Some day 
 humanity will understand what this means. Before one does un- 
 derstand it, one knows nothing of life. 
 
 — Oscar Wilde. 
 
 Same as Act II. Mamie adjusts her hat and jacket. 
 Leaves the room slozvly at exit left hack, zvithout looking 
 behind her. Bates follozvs her zvith his eyes zvithout say- 
 ing one zvord. The machinery is in full zvork. Some one 
 pulls at middle door. Bates unlocks it in great haste and 
 appears reliez'ed to see that it is only Rosie. 
 
 Bates — Why are you not at work? 
 
 Rosie — I am looking for Mamie. 
 
 Bates — In here? 
 
 Rosie — Yes. 
 
 Bates — Why in here? 
 
 Rosie — Because, she was in here a Httle while ago. 
 
 Bates — You're mistaken. 
 
 Rosie — No, I'm not. 
 
 Bates — How do you know? 
 
 Rosie — Because I saw her here. 
 
 Bates — But the door was locked. 
 
 Rosie — The door was not locked when I came in. 
 
 Bates — You've been prying. 
 
 Rosie — No, I came to protect Mamie. 
 
 Bates — Did Mamie tell you to pry? 
 
 Rosie — No, I came to protect Mamie. 
 
 Bates — Then why did you not protect Mamie? 
 
 Rosie — There was no need of it. You were good to 
 Mamie. 
 
 57 
 
Bates— Was I? 
 
 Rosie — Yes, you had your arm around her. Will you 
 always be good to Mamie? 
 
 Bates (short) — Surely, surely. It is time for you to 
 be at your work. Run along. 
 
 Rosie — Yes, sir. I'll go right away. I only want to 
 know where Mamie is now. 
 
 Bates — Working, most likely. 
 
 Rosie (shakes her head) — I was there and didn't see 
 her. 
 
 Bates — Go to your work and don't mind other peo- 
 ple's business. 
 
 (Rosie turns to go.) 
 
 Bates — She is there by this time. 
 
 Rosie (sadly) — I don't think so. 
 
 (Rosie is about to leave the room zvhen Bates calls 
 her back.) 
 
 Bates — Wait a minute, Rosie. You must not tell 
 any one what you saw. 
 
 Rosie — No, sir. 
 
 Bates — That must be a secret between us. 
 
 Rosie — Yes, sir. 
 
 Bates — You mustn't tell — or you know? 
 
 Rosie — I'll lose my job. 
 
 Bates — Yes, that too — but I shall never — 
 
 Rosie (alarmed) — Be good to Mamie again? 
 
 Bates — No, I shall have nothing more to do with her 
 again. I don't want you to go and gossip — and if I find 
 out — you'll be sorry for it. 
 
 Rosie— Oh, Mr. Bates, I'd never tell if I thought that. 
 
 Bates — Remember now what I told you. You say 
 Mamie was not at her place? 
 
 Rosie — Indeed I'm quite sure of it. 
 
 58 
 
Bates — You know it is against the rules to go to other 
 rooms when you have no business there. 
 
 Rosie — Yes, I know. 
 
 Bates — You will not forget that? 
 
 Rosie — But I must see Mamie. 
 
 Bates — But you must obey the rules. 
 
 Rosie — You don't want me to see Mamie? You don't 
 want me to talk to her? 
 
 Bates (looks at her for a moment) — You say Mamie 
 is not at her place? You are sure of it? Now listen. 
 If that is so you can take her place. 
 
 Rosie — But — I don't — 
 
 Bates— Well— 
 
 Rosie (hesitatingly) — Fdon't want to put Mamie out 
 of her job. 
 
 Bates (short) — That's not the question. Can you do 
 the work? 
 
 Rosie — I would try to do the work because I want to 
 earn the money. I am sure if Mamie would show me I 
 could learn. 
 
 Bates — ^Try it and report to me. 
 
 Rosie — But if Mamie is not there? 
 
 Bates — Then don't make a fuss. You know what the 
 work is. Do your best until Mamie comes. 
 
 Rosie — But if Mamie doesn't come? 
 
 Bates — You'll know she has been sent to do other 
 work. Now go. (Rosie turns to go) — If Mamie comes, 
 tell her to come here, I have other work for her. 
 
 Rosie — Will I get higher wages? 
 
 Bates — First see whether you can do the work at all, 
 and then we will see whether you will get higher wages. 
 And be sure you do not gossip — otherwise there will be 
 no work for either of you here. 
 
 (Exit Rosie, Bates appears nervous and restless. 
 
 69 
 
Enter Sam, bearing American flag zvhich he is about to 
 put out of the zinndozv. Bates beckons to him. Sam 
 zvalks to him with the flag in his hand.) 
 
 Sam — I'll have to put this out to-day. I'll have no 
 time later. 
 
 Bates — Sam, did you see any one go downstairs? 
 
 Sam — No, sir. I don't remember seeing any one. 
 
 Bates — Didn't any one go downstairs just now? 
 
 Sam — No, sir. I'm quite sure. Is anything wrong? 
 
 Bates— Why? 
 
 Sam — You look troubled. 
 
 Bates — This holiday comes in so unhandy. So much 
 work to turn out. 
 
 Sam — But a holiday is a great thing, Mr. Bates. 
 
 Bates — It's all right when there is no work. It's up 
 to me to deliver the goods whether it's possible or not. 
 
 Sam — That's always the way. Them that's not by 
 to see don't understand. 
 
 Bates — No. 
 
 Sam — You have to be right on the spot to know. 
 Them people hundreds of miles away — how do they 
 know what's going on here? You'd think when they're 
 getting all the benefits they'd want to stop over for a 
 while and look a bit. 
 
 Bates — That's what I'm here for. 
 
 Sam — They don't appreciate what you do for them — 
 and them in there — 
 
 Bates — Are you one of those confounded kickers'* 
 
 Sam — No. Only it doesn't seem fair that some 
 should be loafing and enjoying them — 
 
 Bates — You'd do the same thing if you had the 
 chance. 
 
 Sam — Do you think I would? 
 
 60 
 
Bates — If you don't even know what you'd do if you 
 had the chance what are you kicking about? 
 
 Sam — I'm not kicking. 
 
 Bates — Well, you're talking, that's only a waste of 
 time. Every one is talking and trying to make you think 
 they'd fight for their convictions — and stand for heroes. 
 But they won't. They're all too busy looking for some 
 one else to do the work for them while they go out to 
 enjoy themselves. 
 
 Sam — Perhaps you're right. 
 
 Bates — No perhaps about it. 
 
 Sam (beaming) — Indeed you are right. (Puts flag 
 hiirridly on the window sill and prepares himself for con- 
 versation.) 
 
 I guess I'm as bad as any of them when I have the 
 chance. Now I've planned a great day for to-morrow, a 
 great day. I've been looking forward to it for weeks — 
 have been hunting high and low for some one to do my 
 work that day, so I can go out and have a good time. 
 
 Bates — You'll always find an example to prove what 
 I've said. 
 
 Sam — And I've found some one. So to-morrow — 
 
 Bates — However any one can look forward to a holi- 
 day. It's the greatest bore. 
 
 Sam — Oh no. Not for those that have to work all 
 the time. I've looked forward to this for weeks. 
 
 Bates — By yourself? 
 
 Sam — I've planned it by myself, but I need some one 
 else to make it a success. 
 
 Bates — A girl? 
 
 Sam — Why do you think it's a girl? 
 
 Bates — Usual thing. 
 
 Sam — You're right. It is a girl. 
 
 Bates — I guess I know who it is. 
 61 
 
Sam — It's not hard to guess. Every one is stuck on 
 her. 
 
 Bates — That's what every fellow thinks about his 
 girl. 
 
 Sam — Why I always thought you were stuck on her 
 yourself. 
 
 Bates — Me? I have no time to think of such things. 
 So you are going to make a day of it with Bertha, are 
 you? 
 
 Sam — Why no. With Mamie, Miss Mamie Lovejoy. 
 — Well I did think as you and I were rivals. 
 
 Bates — How so? 
 
 Sam — I thought you and Miss — 
 
 Bates — Rivals ! Put that out of your head, Sam. 
 
 Sam — We're not? You haven't set your eye on Miss 
 Mamie ? 
 
 Bates — Of course not. What made you think that? 
 
 Sam — Well you are the kind of a man a girl would 
 take a fancy to. And you have the advantage of money. 
 Somehow I always was a kind o' afraid of you. 
 
 Bates — Without any reason. Do you suppose I 
 would stand in your way? 
 
 Sam — Really, Mr. Bates? 
 
 Bates — Why no. What would I want to do that for? 
 
 Sam (joyfully) — Oh, Mr. Bates. 
 
 Bates — I never gave the thing a thought. I always 
 imagined you two would make a capital pair some day. 
 
 Sam — Do you think so? 
 
 Bates — I wouldn't make an ass of myself by making 
 love to a girl who has her eyes on another fellow. 
 
 Sam — Do you think she cares for me? 
 
 Bates — Cares for me! Why I'm sure she thinks the 
 world and all of you and just acts shy not to give her- 
 self away. You must have more confidence in yourself. 
 
 62 
 
She ought to be glad to get a nice fellow like you. Such 
 chances don't turn up every day. And she'd make a fine 
 wife for you, too. 
 
 Sam — And I was always thinking you wanted her 
 yourself. 
 
 Bates — Well she's a nice girl — but I can't marry 
 every nice girl, can I? (Laughs.) If you'd propose to 
 her I'm sure she would accept you. She's as nice a girl 
 as I know, and as good a girl. 
 
 Sam — Do you really think I'd have a chance ? 
 
 Bates — All the chances in the world. You must take 
 courage. How's a girl to know you love her if you don't 
 tell her. 
 
 Sam — I didn't think I had a chance. 
 
 Bates — You mustn't feel like that about it. You just 
 tell her you love her. You do, don't you ? 
 
 Sam (very earnestly, hut without pathos) — If I could 
 tell you how I love her you would not believe it. There 
 is just one thing I think of — just one face I dream of — 
 just one thing I wish for. I'd kiss the earth she treads 
 on. If you knew how happy it makes me that you're not 
 thinking of her yourself. I knew I had no chance beside 
 you. It's been such a worriment to me all along — and I 
 almost believe (suddenly bright ening) you withheld be- 
 cause you thought I had a prior right. You knew you 
 had a better chance. It is so good of you. What's me? 
 Only a poor janitor — and she? She's a queen. A queen, 
 I say. That's what makes it so hard. The great dif- 
 ference between us. I almost wish sometimes she were 
 not so pure, so good, so spotless that I could show her 
 how deep, how true my love is. 
 
 Bates — You're the man. You're the man that ought 
 to have her. You're the one that could make her happy. 
 
 63 
 
Propose to her as soon as you can. Tell her just how 
 you feel about it. You can't help but win her. 
 
 Sam — Do you think so? 
 
 Bates — I'm sure of it. 
 
 Sam — Oh my, oh my, I must be going downstairs. 
 I've left some one waiting for me. And, Mr. Bates, will 
 you put in a good word for me? 
 
 Bates — Why certainly — first opportunity. 
 
 (Machinery stops suddenly.) 
 
 Sam — You think I've got a chance? 
 
 Bates — Surely. 
 
 (Exit Sam. Confused voices from other room. 
 Bates steps through middle door. You are aware by the 
 nature of the sounds issuing from the other room that 
 something has happened. The sounds come in li'aves, 
 then quiet. Jenny opens door centre back, leaznng it open 
 while she runs into private room, as though in search of 
 Bates. People pass in groups, expressing alarm. Exit 
 Jenny, closing door behind her.) 
 
 (Enter Jim, pulling Mamie gently behind him.) 
 
 Jim — What is the matter, Mamie. Why did you not 
 want to come in? This is where you work, is it not? 
 
 (Jim looks as though in search of some one.) 
 
 Mamie — Please let me go home. 
 
 Jim (very gently) — What is the matter? 
 
 Mamie (goes towards middle door) — Why is it so 
 quiet ? 
 
 Jim — Stay here. 
 
 Mamie (alarmed) — Something has happened. 
 
 Jim — Never mind what has happened. You must 
 not run away from me. 
 
 Mamie — I'm so afraid. 
 
 Jim — Mamie, I can see there is something wrong with 
 
 64 
 
you. Something has frightened you. Tell me what it is ; 
 perhaps I can help you. 
 
 Mamie — Please let me go home. 
 
 Jim — What has agitated you? Tell me, Mamie. 
 Don't make it hard for me. 
 
 Mamie — Something has happened in that room — 
 
 Jim — You are not afraid of what has happened in 
 that room. It is something else you fear. 
 
 Mamie — Let me go home. 
 
 Jim — I will let you go home when I know what it is 
 that is ailing you. Tell me, Mamie. I. feel there is some- 
 thing that is weighing on your mind, and I want to know 
 what it is before we go home. I must know. Tell me. 
 Why were you walking on the street? What are you 
 hiding? Tell me, that I may help you. 
 
 Mamie — Let me go home. 
 
 Jim — I shall not let you go before I know why you 
 were walking on the street just now. 
 
 Mamie — You would not understand. 
 
 Jim — But I could try. 
 
 Mamie — There is nothing to tell. 
 
 Jim — My child, don't be afraid. Trust me. Perhaps 
 I can help you. 
 
 Mamie — There is nothing to tell. 
 
 Jim — You will feel better after you have told me. 
 
 Mamie — Please let me go home. 
 
 Jim — Mamie, my child, the sorrow you are hiding 
 from me I feel its whole weight upon me. Let me share 
 it with you. 
 
 Mamie (sighs) — Oh. 
 
 Jim — Trust me. 
 
 Mamie — Please let me go home. 
 
 Jim — Now you must stay here until I know all I must 
 know. 
 
 65 
 
Mamie — Spare me. 
 
 Jim — Why surely I will spare you. Open your heart 
 to me. I will find out what I want to know. You may 
 as well tell me yourself, for I shall find out through 
 others. Trust me. I will do you no harm. 
 
 Mamie (defiantly) — Why should I trust you? You 
 forsook us — you abandoned us. 
 
 Jim — But I loved you just the same. 
 
 Mamie (mockingly) — Loved ! 
 
 Jim — Do you doubt I want your happiness? 
 
 Mamie (mockingly) — Happiness! 
 
 Jim — My child, that is why I wish to know. Because 
 I love you and want your happiness. I wish to spare you 
 as much pain as I can. But how can I if I do not know. 
 I shall have no pity on myself — no matter how much 
 suffering it may cause me — I shall sift this to the end. 
 Do you think you can put me off by pleading? I must 
 know, that I may help you. 
 
 Mamie — You should have thought of that sooner. 
 
 Jim — You do not understand. 
 
 Mamie — Oh yes, I understand. You left us to shift 
 for ourselves. 
 
 Jim — I could not come. 
 
 Mamie — Could not come? But why could you come 
 now? 
 
 Jim — I could not come. Do you believe I should 
 have remained away when I heard your cry of need? 
 
 Mamie (incredulously) — You heard our cry of need? 
 
 Jim — I heard it in my heart. I heard it calling day 
 and night. 
 
 Mamie — I cannot understand. 
 
 Jim — You need me. You cannot do without me. 
 
 Mamie — I have done without you so long I can do 
 
 66 
 
without you longer. I do not believe you. You come too 
 late. 
 
 Jim — You must believe in me. 
 
 Mamie — How can I? Life has taught me its lesson. 
 I shall live accordingly. Even if you knew you would 
 only condemn me. 
 
 Jim (anxiously) — Condemn you? I could only con- 
 demn you had you been bad. You can be bad only when 
 you know all the good, and good when you know all evil. 
 
 Mamie — There is no help. 
 
 Jim — Mamie, my child, it is not fair that one so 
 young should bear the burden of life alone. You cannot 
 know its dangers and have force of character against 
 such odds. Mamie, I entreat you. 
 
 Mamie (coldly) — Why did you come anyway? 
 
 Jim — I came to take you and Rosie home. I coaxed 
 your mother to let me get you. We were to start a new 
 life, and I was to teach you what happiness meant. And 
 I found you walking in the streets. 
 
 Mamie — You were going to take us home for always ? 
 
 Jim — Yes. I was going to make a home for you. A 
 little home, with sunbeams streaming in the windows and 
 flowers blowing in the garden. 
 
 Mamie — And we were to live there ? 
 
 Jim — Yes. I wanted to make up for all you have 
 missed in all these years. 
 
 Mamie — Why did you not come sooner? 
 
 Jim — I came as soon as I could. 
 
 Mamie — I don't understand. 
 
 Jim — Some day you will. But now I want to begin. 
 Now I want to take the burden of your troubles on my 
 shoulders. 
 
 Mamie (spent) — Then you'll let me alone and not 
 worry me any more? 
 
 67 
 
Jim — Let me make you happy. I will if you will let 
 me. Place your secret in my hands; it will be kindly 
 guarded. 
 
 Mamie (suddenly suspicions) — You had the chance 
 from my babyhood. That was when I needed you most. 
 But then we were left to do the best we could. There 
 was no one to look after us. There was no one to help 
 us. But now you come — now now — to make me re- 
 sponsible for what you have made of me. Now you 
 come to show your authority, which you shirked when we 
 could profit by it most. (Laughs.) 
 
 Jim — Mamie! Mamie! Stop, stop. This is not the 
 moment to taunt me. I know you have sufifered. I know 
 you have been left to your own devices when your hand 
 should have been gently led by care and love. But I do 
 not come to flaunt my authority into your aching heart. 
 You have been left alone too long. You have seen only 
 the dismal side of life. You have not been guided into 
 womanhood. But have been hurled into it. 
 
 (Mamie nods.) 
 
 Jim — You did not have the strength to endure it. It 
 was hard to work all day, and to know that others of 
 your age were having a more worthy existence, a more 
 worthy preparation for life? 
 
 (Mamie nods tiredly.) 
 
 Jim (with touching kindness) — See, I understand. 
 And sometimes you did not care to come here? You 
 wished to go out into the sunshine, into the woods that 
 stand in solitude? 
 
 Mamie — You know all so well, why did you let us 
 suffer so long? 
 
 Jim — And you needed money. And when you were 
 too worn out to work, you had to have the money just 
 the same? 
 
 68 
 
Mamie — Why did you come when the best part of 
 ny Hfe was spent? 
 
 Jim — Tell me everything, dear ; I want to help you. 
 
 Mamie — You cannot help me now. It is too late. 
 /Vhy did you not think of us sooner while there was yet 
 ime? For twelve years you did not think it worth your 
 vhile to trouble yourself about me. Let me go in peace — 
 low. What do you want of me? I shall live my life as 
 '. have been taught it. 
 
 Jim — I always thought of you. 
 
 Mamie — Thought — thought — what good do thoughts 
 io? Now — now — you come and pry into the secrets of 
 ny life — so you can punish me if they do not suit you. 
 
 Jim — Punish you? I do not come to punish you. I 
 :ome to put my arm around you. 
 
 Mamie (laughs scornfully) — I know what that means. 
 Let me live my hfe as best I can. That is all I ask. I 
 kvant nothing of you. Neither your help, your forgive- 
 less or anything else. Now let me go ; I am tired. 
 
 Jim — I am sorry you bear me ill-will. I have told 
 y^ou I came as soon as I could. 
 
 Mamie — But how did we get lost ? 
 
 Ji7n — It is hard to tell. Some day you will under- 
 stand. Mamie, you earned money outside of the factory? 
 
 Mamie — Never. And what were you doing all those 
 ^ears ? 
 
 Jim — It is a long story. Don't be afraid to tell me. 
 What were you doing on the street then ? 
 
 Mamie — I was going home. 
 
 Jim — You were not. You were going in another 
 direction. 
 
 Mamie — I had a headache. 
 
 Jim — Is that true? 
 
 Mamie — Yes. , ; 
 
 69 
 
Jim — I shall ask the superintendent — he will be 
 able to tell me what I wish to know if you will not. 
 
 Mamie — Don't ask him. Please don't ask him any- 
 thing about me. 
 
 Jim — Why not? 
 
 Mamie — Don't, that's all. 
 
 Jim — What's the use of torturing yourself. If you 
 do not wish to tell me, I am sorry. It would have made 
 it easier for both. I have made you unhappy now. But 
 I meant well. We shall go home as soon as we have 
 Rosie. 
 
 Mamie — And can't I go home now? 
 
 Jim — Let us go together. I hear some one coming. 
 
 (Mamie starts.) 
 
 Jim — What is it ? You must tell me what is upsetting 
 you. 
 
 (Mamie shakes her head.) 
 
 Jim — I suppose I have no right to ask for your con- 
 fidence when I have given you no proof that I deserve it. 
 I am a stranger to you. Even when I tell you that I 
 thought of you day and night you do not believe me. 
 
 (Mamie shakes her head). 
 
 Jim — But I must help you just the same. Just an- 
 swer yes or no truthfully to my question — You earned — 
 your — living — on the — street ? 
 
 Mamie — No, no, no. 
 
 Jim (agonised) — You did not earn your living on the 
 street ? 
 
 Mamie — No, no, no, — 
 
 Jim — Why did you not tell me that before? 
 
 Mamie — Because I did not know you meant that. 
 
 Jim — Then you did not earn your living unworthily? 
 
 Mamie — No, never. 
 
 Jim — Forgive me, my brave little girl. Forgive me. 
 
 70 
 
I have agitated you for nothing. (Looks at her thought- 
 fully.) Forgive me for thinking wrong of you. But 
 when I knew how you had to struggle to keep your head 
 above water I feared you might have fallen. I am so 
 glad, so proud that you have been brave. I was so afraid 
 you might have done something you would regret all your 
 life. That is what made me so anxious to know — I 
 wanted to help you forget. Not to blame you — not to 
 blame you. I have no right to blame you. 
 
 (Mamie nods in assent, much relieved.) 
 
 Jim — No — I have no right. I have done nothing to 
 help you, and I have no right to your confidence. 
 
 (Mamie nods assent.) 
 
 Jim — But even now you do not look happier. Mamie, 
 there is still something troubling you. And you won't 
 tell me, even though it can be nothing wrong. 
 
 Mamie — No. 
 
 Jim — Nothing wrong. It was nearly two when I met 
 you in the street. 
 
 Mamie — Nearly. 
 
 Jim — When did your headache come on? 
 
 Mamie — About — ten. 
 
 Jim (scrutinizes her) — I wish I had come sooner. 
 
 Mamie — I wish you had. (Regretfully, then realiz- 
 ing.) I wish you had come years and years ago. I would 
 know you now, and perhaps love you and have con- 
 fidence in you. I think if I had some one I could trust — 
 it would be such a consolation. (Forced cheerfulness.) 
 I mean always — it would always be such a help. (Sinks 
 tired on his shoulders.) 
 
 Jim (strokes her hair) — My child, you shall trust me. 
 I have had great trouble that has kept me away from 
 you. I did not want to tell you. It might add to your 
 troubles. But you must unburden yourself to me. I 
 
 71 
 
wanted to be with you (struggles perceptibly with 
 himself). I couldn't — I promised your mother — not to 
 tell — but it is better that I am frank with you, that you 
 will believe in my good will. I shall put myself at your 
 mercy. My confession will be a pledge that I love you. 
 You understand — a pledge that I love you — 
 
 /'Mamie nods.) 
 
 lim — When I tell you what I have to say, it is to show 
 you that we can trust each other — you understand — 
 
 (Mamie nods.) 
 
 Jim — And that you may see that I have no right to 
 condemn you, no matter what you may have to say. — 
 
 (They look at each other.) 
 
 Jim — I will tell you then — 
 
 (Pause. Mamie ready to break down. Jim looks 
 away.) 
 
 Jim — I have been — in — prison — these twelve years. 
 
 Mamie (scornfully) — In prison ! (Laughs, turns 
 from him.) So that's where you've been ? 
 
 Jim (heart brokoi) — And you will not tell me even 
 now? 
 
 Mamie (desperately) — Mr. Bates discharged me. 
 
 (Mamie shrinks towards windozv, zvhere she stands 
 immovable, with her back to the audience. Jim looks at 
 her despondently.) 
 
 (Enter Bates in great haste. Sees Mamie.) 
 
 Bates — You here, Mamie? (Greatly astonished 
 when he sees Jim, but quickly collects himself.) 
 
 Jim — Mr. Bates? 
 
 Bates (stiffly) — What can I do for you? 
 
 Jim — I am Lovejoy, Mamie's father. 
 
 Bates — I didn't know — 
 
 Jim — No, you did not know Mamie had a father — but 
 no matter. You discharged my daughter? 
 
 72 
 
Bates (hesitatingly) — Why, no — Mamie has not been 
 discharged — that I know of. 
 
 Jim — She told me so. 
 
 Bates — Perhaps she has been discharged by the fore- 
 man. 
 
 Jim — She told me Mr. Bates discharged her. 
 
 Bates — Is that so? 
 
 Jim — I would like an explanation. 
 
 Bates — I presume she thought the discharge came 
 through me. 
 
 Jim — You have paid her time? 
 
 Bates (relieved-) — Oh, an oversight that can easily be 
 remedied. (Pleasantly hands Jim some money.) 
 
 Jim — Without a time slip from the foreman — or an 
 advice of her discharge? 
 
 Bates (amiably) — I will take your word for it. 
 
 Jim (sternly) — The word of a man whom you have 
 not seen before to-day? 
 
 Bates — As a matter of fact — I have no time to argue 
 these points with you now. An accident. (Points in the 
 direction of the machine room and goes in that direction.) 
 
 Jim — Mr. Bates, you will pardon me. Remain here 
 until I have the information I need. 
 
 Bates — I must — the accident in the machine room — 
 
 Jim — It is a question concerning my daughter's 
 honor which I wish to have settled now. After that you 
 may attend to the affairs which concern your business. 
 Kindly answer me. Has my daughter been employed in 
 this factory? 
 
 Bates — Yes. 
 
 Jim — How long? 
 
 Bates — About two years. 
 
 Jim — Has she attended regularly? 
 
 Bates — Quite. 
 
 73 
 
Jifn — Will you please find out for me why she has 
 been discharged? 
 
 Bates — Certainly. I shall let you know as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 Jim — I wish to know now. 
 
 Bates — Impossible. The confusion — 
 
 Jim — My dear sir, your evasive answers will not 
 serve you now. At what time was my daughter dis- 
 charged ? 
 
 Bates — Why, I don't know. I could not tell you. 
 
 Jim — You mean you will not tell me. You knew she 
 had gone, for you knew she had come back. 
 
 Bates — Mr. Love joy, I shall answer no more ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Jim, (evasively) — As a matter of fact I found my 
 daughter walking the street when she should have been 
 at work at the factory — 
 
 Bates— Wd\? 
 
 Jim — It was my purpose to ask you whether she had 
 really been employed in the factory or whether she 
 earned her living dishonorably. 
 
 Bates — A very severe conclusion. Mamie has a per- 
 fect record. 
 
 Jim — But her answers were full of contradictions. 
 
 Bates — You must not think the worst. It would be 
 wrong to accuse her of anything so grave when her er- 
 rand may have been the most innocent. 
 
 Jim — She will not tell. 
 
 Bates (affecting concern) — I suppose she is afraid to 
 tell you. She may have had an appointment. That may 
 be all. 
 
 Jim (to Mamie) — Was that it? 
 
 (Mamie nods in the affirmative.) 
 
 Bates (confidentially) — You see nothing more than 
 
 74 
 
that. You frighten the girl by your severity. Take her 
 home and you will soon know everything. 
 
 Jim — Evidently you know more about Mamie's 
 movements than you wish to tell. 
 
 Bates — Oh no, no; how should I? 
 
 Jim — Were you the man with whom she had the ap- 
 pointment ? 
 
 Bates — I am a business man and never allow any- 
 thing to interfere with my business hours. 
 
 Jim — Or dealings? 
 
 Bates — Or dealings. 
 
 Jim — Except the present one. The foreman is too 
 busy now to help us out. Perhaps you also know with 
 whom she had the appointment. 
 
 Bates — Well — that is hard to say. 
 
 Jiin — She had so many? 
 
 Bates — Oh, no, nothing like that. 
 
 Jim — You mean a special one whom you do not wish 
 to name? 
 
 Bates — That is more like it. 
 
 Jim — Please throw aside all consideration. I suspect 
 so much now that only certainty could avail me. My 
 daughter will have to submit that you name the person 
 you have in mind. 
 
 (Bates rings a bell.) 
 
 Bates — I may be mistaken, of course, and I must say 
 you put me into a very awkward position. But I would 
 not have you misconstrue Mamie's conduct, if it is in my 
 power to give a solution. I am sure you are overhasty 
 in your judgment of her. 
 
 (Enter Sam.) 
 
 Bates — You told me, Sam, you had something to say 
 to Miss Mamie — I shall leave you to yourselves. You 
 can straighten out the matter. 
 
 75 
 
Sam — Oh, Mr. Bates, how good of you. It is so kind 
 of you. I thank you so much. 
 
 Jim {after Bates, who is hurriedly leaving the room) 
 Hold on — (to Sam). Did you have an appointment with 
 my daughter this noon? 
 
 Sam — Mercy, no. 
 
 Jim — What does this mean? 
 
 Bates — Did you not say some one was waiting for you 
 downstairs ? 
 
 Sam — Yes. 
 
 Bates — Did you not make me beheve it was Miss 
 Mamie? 
 
 Sam (innocently) — Did you think that was Miss 
 Mamie? Oh, no. That was Jones. {Calls Jones zvith 
 a loud voice at the side door.) 
 
 (Enter Jones.) 
 
 Sam — That's the man I had the appointment with. 
 
 Bates — I was sure it was Mamie. 
 
 Sam — Miss Mamie wouldn't make appointments with 
 nobody. Oh no, I know her since she come here, and if 
 there is a pure white angel on earth, it is Miss Mamie. 
 Anybody who thinks anything that's not right of Miss 
 Mamie is one who don't know her. I never had the 
 courage to tell Miss Mamie what I think of her, and I 
 would never dare ask her to make an appointment with 
 me downstairs at noon hour. 
 
 Bates — Sam, there is a little misunderstanding here 
 between Mamie and her father. 
 
 Sam (incredulously) — Her father? 
 
 Bates — He suspects her of keeping something from 
 him and calls upon me to find the solution. I see you 
 know Mamie better than I do. Perhaps you can give 
 him the assurance he needs. 
 
 Sam — I know of no secret Miss Mamie might be 
 76 
 
ceeping from her father or any one else. It cannot be a 
 ^ery serious one. But if she has something she wishes 
 to keep to herself, her wish ought to be respected. It is 
 not fair to torture her — 
 
 Jim — It was in order to serve her that I wanted the 
 explanation — 
 
 Sam — I am glad to hear you say that. I fear Miss 
 Mamie has outgrown the help a parent can give. Her 
 future stands at the mercy of her lifemate. If she will 
 accept one I am at her bidding. My hand and my heart 
 are at her service. 
 
 (Jim looks from Sam to Mamie.) 
 
 Jim — Will you have this man? 
 
 (Mamie has gone to Sam in the meantime, gives him 
 her hand.) 
 
 Mamie — Sam, I thank you. It was kind of you to say 
 that for me. 
 
 Sam (jubilantly) — And you will accept me? 
 
 Mamie (humbly) — Sam, I am not worthy of you. 
 
 Jim (desperately) — Not worthy ? What do you mean ? 
 
 Mamie — Just what I said. 
 
 Jim — Mamie, there is just one thing that would make 
 you unworthy. I know what you mean, even if you won't 
 tell me. If this is so, remember there are laws and courts 
 which will defend your rights. There are still men who 
 stand for right and honor. Do you think the truth need 
 be suppressed without making one effort towards com- 
 promise? Surely you are worthy of this man. Say what 
 makes you unworthy or accept him. 
 
 (Jim looks at Bates, who in turn looks at Mamie.) 
 
 Mamie (defiantly) — Since you know and want every- 
 one else to know — tell him yourself. 
 
 Jim (full of agony, looking with deep compassion at 
 
 77 
 
her, to Sam). Because I have — been in prison for twelve 
 years. 
 
 (Consternation.) 
 
 Mamie (rushes into her father's arms) — Father! 
 
 Sam (first to collect himself) — But that doesn't mat- 
 ter, Miss Mamie. 
 
 (No response from Mamie, Sam looks at Bates, who 
 avoids his gaze, then looks appealingly at Jim.) 
 
 Jim — I'm afraid there's no hope for you. 
 
 (Sam stunned. Bates makes sign to Jones to take 
 Sam azvay. Exit Sam and Jones.) 
 
 Jim — Mr. Bates, what have you to say for yourself? 
 
 (They look at each other. Enter children, women and 
 men. When they have separated you see they have put 
 something on the floor.) 
 
 Mamie — Rosie! (Throzvs herself on a heap beside 
 the body and does not move. Some one bundles an apron 
 under Rosie' s head.) 
 
 Jim — Rosie — and you did not tell me. 
 
 Bates — You would not listen. 
 
 (Jim looks at body for a while very quietly.) You 
 shall pay for this. 
 
 Bates — We are perfectly willing to pay a reasonable 
 sum. 
 
 Jim (makes a lunge at him) — With your life and 
 blood ! (Falling back.) There's no use. 
 
 Bates — I can appreciate how you feel about it. But 
 no one was to blame. 
 
 Jim — That glorious child. 
 
 Bates — You hardly knew her. 
 
 Jim — No, but the few moments I did know her — she 
 gave me all that makes life worth living for. If I had 
 been here it would not have happened. 
 
 78 
 
Bates — Mr. Love joy, do not think that. Even if you 
 had been here it might have happened. 
 
 (A murmur goes through the crowd at hearing that. 
 They leave the room gradually, but one by one peers 
 through the open door to see what is going on.) 
 
 (Jim sits down in despair.) 
 
 Bates (consoling) — These accidents happen every day 
 — but there's no one to blame. The children are care- 
 less, we cannot control them all the time. They get 
 weary. In the factory exposed to danger — belts and 
 wheels. We do all we can. We take every precaution, 
 keep the hours — keep within the age limits — good light — 
 good ventilation. We've never been known to transgress 
 the law. But the accidents are unavoidable. You have 
 my sympathy, and we are perfectly willing to pay you a 
 reasonable sum, $150. Mr. Lovejoy, would $150 be 
 satisfactory? 
 
 Jim — Had it not been for that, they would never have 
 worked in a factory. 
 
 Bates — Thousands of children work in factories and 
 not all fathers are convicts. (Commotion among zvork- 
 ers.) Many honest men out of work send their children 
 to factories. Then there is sickness. Some are shift- 
 less, or are not able to earn enough to support their 
 families — a thousand other things. And when the men 
 are out of work or getting small wages they beg us to 
 take the children. What are we to do? We save them 
 from starving. Whole families are supported by the 
 earnings of children. 
 
 Jim — And other families kept in luxury. 
 
 Bates — You might have been disabled long ago or 
 died. There is no saying. Why reproach yourself for 
 what cannot be avoided. Shall I make out a check for 
 $150? 
 
 79 
 
Jim — No. 
 
 Bates — It's an exception I'm making with you. We 
 don't give anything for children — they earn so Httle. It's 
 according to the earning capacity compensation is rated. 
 You might start a lawsuit — but I wouldn't advise you to. 
 We engage the best lawyers by the year for just such 
 emergencies. If you have not the means you cannot en- 
 gage one that will match ours. To us it's a business 
 transaction, to you it's a personal matter, that will cause 
 you trouble and anxiety. Finally you will have to give 
 up a large share for your legal advice, and there won't be 
 much profit after all. Besides, the child disobeyed the 
 rules. As a matter of fact, the accident happened in a 
 room where she had no business to be. (Beckons to 
 Jenny, zvho is standing in the doorway.) Rosie came to 
 speak to you ? was that it ? 
 
 Jenny — She came to look for Mamie. 
 
 Jim — She spoke to you? 
 
 Jenny — When she saw Mamie was not there she be- 
 gan to work at Mamie's machine. Then she came to ask 
 me whether I knew where Mamie was. When I said I 
 didn't, her eyes filled with tears, and it seems she was 
 blinded, for before I could catch her the awful thing 
 happened. 
 
 (Bates softens perceptibly.) 
 
 Bates — Let us make it $200. 
 
 Jim — No. 
 
 Bates — That's the best I can do. I couldn't possibly 
 go higher. You won't take $200? 
 
 Jim — I wasn't thinking of the money. I was thinking 
 how much she wanted to give to the world. 
 
 Bates — I will make out a check for $200. 
 
 Jim — I'm not a dealer in human flesh. 
 
 Bates — Then you won't take it. You're foolish. It's 
 
a fair equivalent. Any one would jump at a chance. 
 You will not do better by bringing a lawsuit. 
 
 Jim — I have more respect for the memory of my child 
 than to wrangle over the value of her life. Her value 
 was infinite. I wish to sorrow over her loss in peace. 
 
 Bates — Just as you say. 
 
 Jim (broken at first) — Here I stand, and know there 
 has been a crime. I want to fight. I want to bring 
 punishment to the one who is to blame for this. If I 
 could only get hold of him I'd knock the stuffing out of 
 him. But all that's left to the likes of us is to go to court. 
 What's the use of going there? What do they care or 
 know what I've lost. Nothing would bring her back any- 
 way. Her goodness, her beauty, her sleep, strength, life 
 — they've taken all and turned it into money — that's what 
 they've done. And they offer a part of her earnings as 
 a fair equivalent. Oh, God, do you see what they are do- 
 ing — doing every day? Do you see — and you leave it to 
 man to mend the misery. If I should shout that the 
 heavens would thunder, man would not hear. He will 
 not hear. And if all the children would stretch out their 
 crippled hands and moan of hunger, of cold, of fatigue, 
 of sickness — they would still keep on counting their 
 profits. To the end of days the jingle of profits will 
 deaden the moan of suft'ering. 
 
 But this cannot go on. I must fight. I will find the 
 assassin who is responsible for all this. I must get even 
 with him. Where shall I find him? Where — 
 
 Bates — It was the machine that killed her. 
 
 Jim — Yes, the machine. The machine — the human 
 machine that thrives and feeds and fattens on its own 
 children. The machine — that's you — and I — 
 
 Bates — Then you won't take the money ? 
 
 Jim — No. 
 
 81 
 
Bates — Will you sign a paper releasing us of all 
 obligations ? 
 
 Jim — Yes. 
 
 (Bates prepares a paper in business-like fashion.) 
 
 Bates — She was born? 
 
 Jim (thoughtfully) — Let me see — I can't remember — 
 the night Kelly was killed — that was — 
 
 Bates — The night Kelly was killed! Which Kelly, 
 where ? 
 
 Jim — In Gunner's Valley — what a dreadful night 
 that was ! 
 
 Bates — That was October, 1882. Yes, that was a 
 dreadful night. Then you were there, too, during the 
 strike ? 
 
 Jim (without animation) — Yes, I was there. 
 
 Bates — And you know they killed Kelly with a brick ? 
 
 Jim — Yes. That's what I was sent to prison for. 
 
 Bates — Oh, for that. Is that what you were sent up 
 for? I almost got into trouble myself on account of that. 
 
 Jim — It was terrible. 
 
 Bates — I was just about to go into Kelly's when a 
 man — 
 
 Jim — At the door? 
 
 Bates— Y^s ! 
 
 Jim — A man told you not to go in? There was 
 trouble inside? 
 
 Bates — Yes. 
 
 Jim — How badly I needed that testimony. I was that 
 man. 
 
 Bates — But how could you have thrown that brick? 
 You were just coming out yourself. 
 
 Jim — I didn't throw it. 
 
 Bates — Who did throw it? 
 
 Jim — I don't know. I was near the spot when they 
 
made the search. The others had all got away. They 
 had to take some one, so they took me. I couldn't fur- 
 nish proofs. I was sentenced. 
 
 Bates (with some animation) — Why didn't you send 
 for me? 
 
 Jim — I didn't know who you were. I told my story. 
 Why didn't you turn up and save a poor fellow. 
 
 Bates — I didn't know I was wanted. / was very busy. 
 It was a hard time for me. I was sent out to the new 
 place. The shop was in an awful shape. I was to bring 
 it in order again. My hands were full day and night get- 
 ting the plant running again. I did not care about one 
 striker more than another. It was my chance to get 
 ahead in the world, and I stuck to my work without look- 
 ing right or left. But that will never do. We must get 
 this straightened out. It is a beastly shame when a man 
 has to suffer injustice like that. I must do something for 
 you — I shall — It's a shame — a shame — 
 
 Jim (unresponsive) — And when will you awaken to 
 your own shame? Tell my wife, that's all. 
 
 (Bates shoves paper to him, zvhich he signs.) 
 
 Bates — I'm sorry you wouldn't take anything. The 
 firm is very rich ; it can well afford it. 
 
 (Jim turns to leave. He looks down quietly at Rosie, 
 as one accustomed to suffer zvithout murmur. He looks 
 about him, as though in search of something — sees flag, 
 unfolds it quietly, stands at foot of little corpse.) 
 
 Jim — Your life's work. 
 
 (Covers Rosie with flag. Then he raises Mamie 
 gently from the floor and leads her out into the darkness. 
 Bates makes a movement as though to hold them back. 
 It has grown twilight in the meantime. Everything is 
 silent. The people have all left. Bates sits on chair be- 
 side the body, with his head on his hand. It is quite dark, 
 and one last ray of sunshine slants across the flag.) 
 
€ 
 
 APR 18 1910 
 

 One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
APrl 18 1910 
 
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